Returns A King
by JayRain
Summary: AU. Whether it was fate or chance, Cailan survived Ostagar: barely. But very few people know that, and he will use that to his advantage on his quest to reclaim his throne from Loghain, see the Blight ended, his relationship with Anora mended, and Ferelden restored. Second chances aren't for wasting. (Utilizes my "Sneaking" and "This is War" headcanons).
1. The Proclamation

_Chapter 1: The Proclamation_

_Denerim, the Royal Palace_

Queen Anora looked up at the sound of the messenger's heavy breathing. She set her embroidery work in her lap and turned to face the red-faced man. Though her heart thumped against her ribs and her lungs constricted with panic, she kept her demeanor calm. She smiled pleasantly and clutched at her skirts to keep from throwing something. "News from Ostagar?"

He drew one final gasp before sagging against the doorframe and wiping the sweat from his brow. "My Lady, the Teyrn rides this way."

"Then the battle is over." She kept her voice even, though her knuckles were going white from the effort of holding back her frustrations. "Do you bring more news?" Her mind screamed at her to ask what she really wanted to. What of the armies? What of her husband the king?

"The battle is over, my Lady. But any specific news, Teyrn Loghain would tell you himself. He sent me on ahead to tell you to anticipate his arrival shortly."

Anora set her embroidery work on the side table and rose, smooth and fluid. She adjusted her skirts. "Thank you for your pains, ser," she said with a pleasant, if cold smile. "Go rest. Erlina?" She turned from the door and the messenger, seeing he would not receive any more for his pains than the queen's thanks, tromped down the hall. Anora had forgotten him; she only remembered his words that Teyrn Loghain, her father, would share anything specific.

"My Lady?" Erlina had appeared seemingly from nowhere, a talent of hers that often disconcerted Anora. The elf curtsied slightly, bowing her dark head, then looked up at Anora with curious eyes.

Anora's smile faltered slightly in the presence of her longtime maidservant. "My father is returning. Can you ready tea in the study?"

Erlina bowed once more and glided away, leaving Anora truly alone. She looked around the sitting room where she liked to work. Sunlight flooding the room. Motes of dust floated in the beams of light and in the back of her mind Anora made a note to ask Erlina to dust more thoroughly. Or maybe she would ask Aubrey to do it. Any sort of menial task for _that_ elf. A fire burned in the stone fireplace; the basket of needlework materials sat on the polished wooden side table with Anora's cushioned chair next to it.

She closed her eyes and remembered days when she was at work, concentrating on the neat, even stitches. Cailan would come in, quiet as a ghost even in his boots. He would rest his hands on the back of the chair and lean around so his nose was almost touching her, and then he would blow in her ear. It was a whisper of a breath but it was warm and it was just enough to startle her into dropping whatever she was working on. He would laugh and the sound, rich and golden and warm as a sunrise, would fill the room. Then he would draw her to her feet, and try as she might Anora could not be angry with him. He would swing her around, her feet in the air like a little girl and her own silver, tinkling giggle would weave with his.

Since Cailan had left for Ostagar weeks ago, Anora had taken to working at her embroidery. She hunched over, looking closely at her perfect stitches and just waited for the surprise breath on her neck and in her ear and it never came. And now her father, Teyrn Loghain, rode to the palace. There was no mention of King Cailan.

Anora dabbed at her eyes. She glanced in a mirror and steadied her expression to be one of icy neutrality. Whatever news her father brought, she would bear it with dignity and grace: as Queen Anora Theirin bore everything.

Her steps toward the royal study were measured. She didn't want to run; then she would only have to wait for her father to finish in the stables. But she didn't want to delay if he was already in there. She held her head high and her shoulders back and was every inch the perfect monarch.

Inside, she was a shuddering, writhing mess.

"My Lady," came a voice, and Anora came out of her trance to focus on Aubrey, the red-haired elven girl who'd ingratiated herself into Cailan's life. Anora had a good idea of just how well Aubrey served the king, but never got involved. Cailan's dalliances were his business, after all. But that didn't mean it didn't make her furious. "Word from the battle?"

"You overstep your bounds," Anora said, anger making her voice brittle as the thin ice Aubrey was treading on. She finally made herself meet Aubrey's stunning green gaze and begrudgingly admitted she understood Cailan's infatuation. Oddly enough there was a sense of pity. Without Cailan around, Aubrey had nothing to protect her from the unwritten politics of the castle.

And of course, there was the jealousy… and the rage that a servant and an _elf_ from the _Alienage_ at that would think nothing of addressing the queen for news of the king.

"You will attend to your duties and remember your place," Anora said by way of farewell. She hoped to have left Aubrey stunned, or hurt; how else would Anora feel better about her own insecurity regarding her husband? But the pretty elf merely nodded once and continued down the corridor in the opposite direction.

Anora had expected her father to take time to remove his armor before meeting her, but there he stood in the study still clad in full plate, the metal splattered with dried mud and blood. He turned to face her. Anora was accustomed to her father looking grim, used to the hard lines and crags of his face etched there by years of worrying over Ferelden.

"Anora." He breathed her name out and strode across the study. He gave no regard to her clean dress or confused expression, merely reached out and clasped her to him. Anora felt the hard, cold metal under her cheek and suddenly she didn't want to know what news he brought from the south. "I'm so pleased to see you, daughter."

"And I you, father," she replied, her voice automatic and dull. She pushed away from him. "What news from Ostagar?" she asked, though fear nearly made her throat close up. "What news of Cailan?"

"The darkspawn enemy is great," he said. "Greater than the forces of the Grey Wardens your husband placed faith in."

"So the Wardens have failed," Anora said. She sat down at the small table on which Erlina had laid out tea service for two. Her father remained standing. Anora's stomach clenched and nausea roiled within her, but she still poured her tea perfectly and forced herself to smile. "Does this mean the Blight advances?"

"Only Cailan's vanity demanded that this be a Blight," Loghain said, clenching one gauntlet into a fist. "The enemy is great, but can be vanquished once we increase the army's numbers."

"Increase their numbers? How many were killed?" Anora asked, stunned and momentarily forgetting her worry for Cailan.

Loghain sighed. "It was nearly a total rout. If I'd not had Cauthrien pull the Gwaren forces when she did… I wouldn't have come back."

Anora tried to take a sip of tea, but her hand shook too badly. "What are you saying?" He didn't say anything and for a time the study was silent as a tomb. "What… happened… where's… oh Maker, Cailan." She shook as if with cold and try as she might she couldn't stop. She held the delicate cup more tightly and steaming brown tea sloshed over her hand and dripped like blood down onto her dress.

"Anora, please, be calm." Loghain turned and knelt next to her and took the cup from her hands, but his metal gauntlets were too unwieldy for the thin porcelain and the handle snapped. The cup fell to the stone floor and shattered, but he took no notice of it. He took off his gauntlets and clasped Anora's hands in his. "Cailan insisted on fighting on the front lines with the Grey Wardens."

"You should have stopped him."

"I am a servant of the crown." He bowed his head. "Cailan's orders were for him to be on the front lines with the Wardens. He underestimated the strength of the enemy and was overcome."

"Overcome." Anora pulled her hands out of her father's, suddenly aware of how cold and rough they were. "You mean killed." Cailan killed; Cailan dead. Her husband dead. "Maker, no," she murmured. She backed her chair away from her father, who remained bent on one knee, his pale blue eyes trained on her. It was always hard to read his expression, and she supposed he was trying to look sorrowful. "You left him."

"Anora, no, I didn't. I did everything I could…"

"Except stay beside your king. Your son-in-law. My _husband_!" Her voice reached a high pitch and the more panicked she grew the more difficult it was to force the words out. "Leave me."

"Anora, we must speak of upcoming matters," Loghain said, rising to his feet.

She regarded him with wide, incredulous blue eyes. She felt icy, too cold to move or feel or cry, all things she wanted to do so badly. Most of all she wanted to throw herself at Cailan's solid bulk, feel his large hands around her. And then another shock made her stagger back. "Did you collect his body?" she asked, voice rasping around the lump in her throat.

Loghain's silence broke the ice Anora had built up around her mind and heart. "How could you?" she hissed and then the tears came, spilling out over her cheeks and running down her face. There was a painful tightness in her chest. The tension built within her until she felt like a bowstring pulled taut. And if she didn't leave her father's presence _right now_ she was going to fire at him.

Anora spun and ran, the porcelain shards crunching under her delicate boots. She heard her father call her name, heard the creak of plate, but refused to look back. "My Lady!" Erlina called, and Anora didn't turn to see her, either. All that mattered was getting away.

She turned a corner, ran up a set of stairs, the confident, precise monarch gone; replaced by a grieving madwoman. Anora clapped a hand over her mouth to keep the screams in. Tears ran over her cheeks and her hand and it was too hard to breathe through her nose. She reached her room, where she shared a marriage bed with Cailan.

Anora ignored Erlina's worried shouts behind her and slammed the door, then threw the deadbolt for good measure. She leaned against the heavy oak-paneled door, her chest heaving, her ribs too tight. Then she flung herself face down on the bed and screamed into the pillow until she had no more sound within her. And then she kept screaming.

When morning broke Anora was still awake. She climbed out of the still-made bed and unlocked the door. Erlina sat outside with a tray, and she woke up with a start. "My Lady. I apologize," she said, blinking sleep from her dark eyes. Her hair was mussed and her own clothing as rumpled as Anora's, and the queen realized her maid must have slept outside the door all night. "How may I assist you?"

"I wish to dress, Erlina." Her voice was surprisingly steady.

"Yes, my Lady." Erlina scurried in and began picking through Anora's gowns in the wardrobe while Anora sat at the vanity and began to unwind her hair from the braids wound and pinned tightly at the back of her neck. "Your father wished me to tell you that there will be an emergency Landsmeet held today."

Anora dropped a pin on the vanity table with a clatter. "Today?" _My husband is barely cold in his grave and father is holding a Landsmeet?_ Though she shouldn't have been surprised. King Maric hadn't been gone for even a month before her father forced Cailan to hold the funeral and call the Landsmeet. If it hadn't been for Loghain she supposed Cailan would have taken more time to grieve. And now, as Erlina unpinned, brushed, and redid Anora's hair, Anora could understand why Cailan had been so resentful of Loghain during those months. "We must move on, Majesty," Loghain had all but snapped at Cailan. And Cailan, looking like a resigned, wounded Mabari puppy, had moved on.

Erlina spoke soothing nothing words to Anora, and sometimes hummed as she worked at one side of the queen's long golden hair. Anora looked at the other side and ran her own fingers through it. Cailan always wanted her to wear her hair long and loose more often. And now it wouldn't matter anymore.

"Shall I have breakfast brought?" Erlina's voice snapped Anora back to reality. "You didn't have dinner last night, and after yesterday I can only assume you'd be ready for breakfast. You need your strength," she added in that kind, almost motherly voice that always surprised Anora; she wasn't sure if it was because of her size, but Erlina seemed younger than Anora's own nearly thirty years. And just now Erlina was watching her, meeting Anora's gaze in the mirror. The elf smiled, resting a hand on the queen's shoulders.

Anora forced a smile. "Yes, thank you Erlina. I don't know how I'd get through this without you."

Erlina left and Anora took advantage of the time alone to compose herself and force away the fresh bout of tears that she felt welling up inside. She remembered handling the affairs of the palace the day after Maric's funeral, recalled clearly the way Cailan took to his bed and stared at the wall even when she climbed in and snuggled against him. Then, his cold indifference had hurt her. Now she realized it was only because he wasn't capable of feeling anything other than his grief. Back then, she hadn't lost anyone.

Now, she understood.

But she had to put on the mask of strong, regal monarch. She had to be the queen Ferelden needed, not the woman who'd lost her husband.

So she stood on the balcony overlooking the floor of the Landsmeet chamber. She'd been here when the room was empty, cuddled on the dais near the throne with Cailan, just after lovemaking; she'd been here when the room was full, watching Cailan's coronation. Come to think of it, this was the first time she could ever remember being in here without Cailan. They'd spent so much time together, having been betrothed so young. She'd been with him for every major event in his life, and he for hers.

Except this.

"Arls and banns of Ferelden!" her father began, his voice echoing over the murmurs of the gathered people. "The country has come under attack. Not from Orlesians, not from darkspawn. But from those who would see this country torn apart!"

Anora's heart twisted.

Loghain continued. "We must unite against the threats to our kingdom and to the throne! The Grey Wardens left King Cailan to die because they said there was a Blight. They tricked your king into believing the country was in danger and that his attentions were needed on the front lines. They have betrayed Ferelden and King Cailan, Maker rest his soul." Loghain looked out over the murmuring sea of nobility. Anora stood next to him, a pillar of ice. "Two Wardens remain. They betrayed _your king_ to his _death_. We must stop this threat. And I expect each of you to provide the men necessary to fight this."

The voices rose to roars of protests. "It is your duty to Ferelden!" Loghain yelled, his voice carrying out over them. "And you _all_ will do it. In the interim I shall serve as Queen Anora's regent, and I will see you do your duty." He swept his cold glare over the crowd, which was outright yelling now.

"The Bannorn will not bow simply because you demand it, Loghain!" The voice rang out loud and clear over the other indiscernible voices. Teagan, Bann of Rainesfere and one of Cailan's uncles, stood at the front of the crowd clad in chain mail and staring up at Loghain. Loghain gave a haughty sniff, turned and walked away.

Emotions ran rampant within her and Anora wasn't sure she liked the feeling; she was so used to being stoic, and able to organize her feelings. "Bann Teagan, please," she called down as everyone else began to leave. "My father is doing what's best for Ferelden!"

Teagan looked up at her with his eyes, piercing blue very much like Cailan's. "Did he do what was best for your husband?" he asked, meeting her eyes. Then he turned, his sword bumping his hip and his shield thumping against his back, and left. Anora looked to where her father had disappeared; watched the nobles, people whose respect she'd earned, leave with questions in their voices and anger in their eyes, until she was left alone.

Everywhere Anora looked reminded her of Cailan: the blue of the carpets, the golden sunlight streaming in. He was everywhere except right beside her, where he belonged. She stood in the gallery for a long time, until the sunbeams slanted and the room began to darken: a queen without a king.

Alone.


	2. Politics as Usual

_Chapter 2: Politics As Usual_

Denerim, the Arl of Redcliffe's Estate

"The nobles will see reason, Teagan. You must have faith in our countrymen." Arl Eamon of Redcliffe finished pouring the deep amber brandy into a cut crystal glass and handed it to his younger brother.

Teagan threw back the drink in one swift gulp, earning a glare of disapproval from Eamon. So what if the Antivan brandy was perfectly aged and only taken out on occasions that were either very special or very troubling? "Loghain is persuasive, brother. He has his reputation on his side, and he is the only one who returned from Ostagar."

"Along with his lieutenant Cauthrien and Gwaren's troops," Eamon pointed out.

"Who will all be on Loghain's side."

Eamon sipped his own brandy, pausing to savor the taste of the drink. "You're treading on dangerous ground, Teagan. Loghain's always been faithful to Ferelden, and had our brother-in-law's trust until the very end. Without Loghain, Maric wouldn't have lived to _become_ our brother-in-law."

"He left our nephew to die on the field. He defied direct orders from the king." Teagan reached for the crystal decanter, and when Eamon put his arm out to block his younger brother's reach, Teagan simply pushed Eamon's hand out of the way. "You cannot forget that we, too, are servants of the crown. And Loghain did not just leave his king to die, but left our sister's child. Rowan's son, Eamon."

Rowan had always been a soft spot between the brothers. "What would you have us do, Teagan? Especially against the likes of Loghain."

Teagan now sipped at his second glass of brandy, savoring as he thought. "Loghain demands soldiers. You know he'll come for yours, since you kept them from Ostagar."

Eamon bristled. "I offered; Cailan would neither wait for them, nor give me the dignity of a response."

Teagan held up his hand. "I'm not arguing with you over that. My point is, Loghain will come for your men because, unlike the other Arlings, you have them. He will demand you unite under Gwaren's banner."

"I'll do no such thing."

"I know. But he will pull rank, as a Teyrn, and as Anora's regent."

Eamon frowned and tipped the last drops of brandy down his throat. "Why Anora didn't speak is beyond me. She's the queen, and has ruled capably beside Cailan."

"And Loghain's her father," Teagan pointed out. He paced the stone floor of the study, worn smooth by just this sort of pacing done by Arls and Banns throughout history. "Remember when our father sent us to the Free Marches?"

A ghost of a smile tickled Eamon's features. "And let Rowan stay with him to fight. How could I forget?"

"You yelled at him something terrible," Teagan said with his own smile. "But he held. Father was a strong man and a good leader. And hard to say no to, when he gave a direct order. Especially to his children."

Eamon nodded slowly. "I see what you mean, brother." He rubbed his clean-shaven chin and stared out the window that oversaw the bustling Denerim marketplace. Gwaren soldiers were stationed at the large gate that led out of the market, while city guards milled about, looking nervously at their new competition. Peasants and shopkeepers came and went, hardly taking notice of the silent power struggle going on around them. "I'll be dead before I let that farm boy excuse for nobility take the throne of Calenhad," Eamon said, clenching his jaw. "Maric and Rowan's legacy demands better than that. Ferelden deserves more than that."

Teagan couldn't help but smile. "So what now?"

Eamon turned, his gray-blue eyes flashing with determination. "I'll return to Redcliffe and begin to outfit my army for mobilization."

Teagan raised an eyebrow. "You mean to march on Denerim?"

Eamon returned the gesture with a smile. "No. But if Loghain comes demanding Redcliffe's aid for his cause, whatever tripe it may be, he'll have to fight us first. What will you do?"

Teagan shrugged. "What I do best: cause trouble." Eamon's laugh filled the sunlit study. "I will ride out across the Bannorn and spread the word. See if we can't unite the smaller landholdings into a larger force for Loghain to reckon with. And from there to Rainesfere where I'll batten down the hatches." This last comment was made with an uncharacteristically grim expression on Teagan's face.

Eamon nodded. "I'll notify the head of the staff to prepare our things for a sunrise departure."

Teagan shook his head so violently the small braid he wore whistled in the air. "I think we're better off leaving as soon as we can be ready, and then riding out hard in separate directions."

"Paranoid much?"

"Loghain knows his position is precarious, and if he's declared himself the regent then what we're planning would amount to treason in his eyes," Teagan said. Already he had set down his glass and was putting his mail gauntlets back on. "If we must go, we must go quickly. Otherwise we risk being trapped in the city with his men blocking any communication attempts we make."

Eamon nodded. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, but when he dropped his hand and looked back up at his younger brother, his expression was resolute. "In that case, Maker watch over you, brother."

Teagan clasped Eamon's hand, then pulled him in for a hug. "And over you as well."

Though banns were not high ranking landholders by Ferelden standards, and Teagan's own Bannorn of Rainesfere was a part of Eamon's much larger Arling of Redcliffe, his position as the king's uncle had given him a higher standing and afforded him more privileges amongst the nobles. His voice in the Landsmeet was always heard, and given as much respect and consideration as that of a full Arl: which was why he knew he would be one of Loghain's first targets… but why he also knew the others in the Bannorn would listen to him.

Packing his few belongings and saddling Arod were easy matters, and he galloped out of Denerim, headed west, before the sun even started to dip in the sky. Eamon would be no more than an hour behind him, and would be bound for the southwest. All he could hope was that he was buying his older brother the time they needed to get out of the capital city.

Rainesfere was just under a fortnight out from Denerim, but with all the stops he needed to make, Teagan knew it could be nearly a month before he made it home.

If he made it home.

As he let Arod trot into the setting sun, he didn't let himself think about that. He couldn't, and that was simply that. The Guerrins of Redcliffe were resilient; always had been. He'd been very young when his father was killed by the usurper's soldiers, and fourteen, Rowan had died. But he'd remained strong, as much for himself as for his five-year-old nephew.

As he rode, Teagan felt sadness welling up inside of him at the memory of Cailan as a young boy. He was a copy of Maric down to his blue eyes and crooked smile, but his mannerisms were so thoroughly Rowan that Teagan was always amazed.

And now Cailan was dead. His last link to his sister, other than Eamon, was gone.

Teagan pushed Arod on until after the sun had set, and it was only when he could barely see in front of him and Arod stumbled slightly that he reined in his horse and set up camp in a thicket well off the road. He'd considered heading toward Amaranthine, second only to Redcliffe in size and power as far as the Arlings went. But he'd caught sight of Arl Rendon Howe at the Landsmeet, whispering to Loghain. If the Arl was still in Denerim, that would give Teagan the upper hand when it came to getting through to the Banns scattered around Amaranthine…

He drifted to sleep with his hand on his sword and his thoughts cycling the intricacies of Fereldan politics through his mind.

Morning dawned, but Teagan hardly felt rested. He cleaned up his rough campsite, making sure to sweep over his footprints with a fallen tree bough. Maybe Eamon had been right when he accused him of being paranoid. Teagan yawned as he mounted an equally sleepy Arod, and they were off again.

Teagan followed the road between the foothills and took a southern heading toward Dragon's Peak. Bann Sighard was a sensible man. Dragon's Peak's proximity to Denerim often made it a good place to go for information about the capital without actually setting foot inside the capital. But it would also make this first stop short and sweet; if Loghain's men didn't know he'd headed out already, they must know by now.

By the time Arod trotted across the stone bridge leading into Sighard's courtyard, the Bann of Dragon's Peak was waiting for him.

"News travels fast, Teagan," Sighard said in answer to Teagan's unasked question. "Faster than you can ride, even." He chuckled as he clapped Teagan on the shoulder.

"I wanted to create a trail to keep any followers off of Eamon," Teagan explained. "Had I come straight here last night I might be keeping Teyrn Loghain company right now."

Sighard's face darkened as they walked into the castle. "I've always trusted your sense, Teagan, and not because you're related to the king, Maker rest his soul."

Teagan passed the better part of the morning with Sighard, whose seneschal was kind enough to supply Teagan with more provisions. "Though I doubt you'll find many doors closed to you, Teagan," Sighard said. "Loghain is the Hero of River Dane. But my fealty was sworn first to the blood of Calenhad."

Teagan bowed his head. "Your allegiance to my brother-in-law and my nephew's memories is appreciated."

Sighard smiled. "I do it for them, yes. But I'd do it for you as well, were you not uncle to the dead king." He held Arod's reins as Teagan mounted up again. "Where will you go next?"

"I'll continue west. Hit up the northern Bannorn and skirt along Amaranthine and Highever." He took the reins. "Perhaps I'll stop in Highever and speak with Teyrna Eleanor. The Couslands have been friends with Loghain since the rebellion, but they're also unwaveringly loyal to the crown." Sighard had gone silent, and if Teagan didn't know any better, perhaps a little pale. "Sighard?"

"Then you've not heard."

Teagan felt as if Ferelden winter had come and settled in his stomach. "Heard what?"

"Teyrn Bryce's eldest, Fergus, marched the Highever troops down to Ostagar. Bryce was to follow the next day, leaving the Teyrna and his daughter in charge of Highever, but they were ambushed. The whole family's been wiped out, man, woman, child. It was a massacre, from what I've heard."

Teagan clenched the reins in his fists and tried to ignore the lightheaded feeling within him. "By whom?"

Sighard looked about, as if afraid of spies and conspirators within his own walls. "They say those who infiltrated Castle Cousland bore the heraldry of Amaranthine."

"Which makes Arl Howe…"

"He's calling himself Teyrn of Highever." Sighard shook his head. "I'll send my messengers out through the southern Bannorn while you take the north. Maker speed you along, and may you return to Rainesfere safely."

Teagan nodded. "Thank you, Sighard. A hundred times, thank you. You're a good ally."

"If it keeps Loghain from the throne, I'll give every last soldier and coin I possess," Sighard said, tugging absently at his pale beard.

"As will I," Teagan said. With that, he spurred Arod into a trot and headed west.


	3. The Survivor

_Chapter 3: The Survivor_

Korcari Wilds, just north of the Uncharted Territories; Chasind lands

Splinters of fire pierced his arm and legs from the inside out. Muscles throbbed in sync with his heartbeat. The fever burned in his head, and his thoughts left a wake of pain behind them. He forced his eyelids apart and the light sliced his vision. He groaned and the sound hurt his parched throat and pierced his ears.

"Draw the blinds," someone said in common tongue, colored with an accent he didn't recognize. The light dimmed and he managed to crack his eyelids again. The room around him was out of focus, but he made out rough wooden walls and a ceiling with exposed beams. Not a castle, then. Not home, but not a tent, either. He tried to turn his head to see around him, but it sent him into fresh spasms of pain. Then a hand was under his head, lifting him slightly so that it hurt, but not too badly, all things considered. "Drink," the voice ordered. A tin cup was pressed to his lips, and he swallowed the water that trickled into his mouth. It was wonderful. He was still trying to drink when that person pulled the cup away and he was laid back against the pillow. "If you drink too much you may get sick and vomit."

He blinked into focus. A young woman hovered over him, her pale blonde hair twisted into a knot at the back of her head. A few locks of light hair had escaped the knot and hung around her face, pale, but painted with an intricate design of swirls around her eyes, over her forehead, and down her cheeks to end at her jaw. Her eyes were as pale as her hair and seemed to glow with their own light. One white hand pressed lightly against his forehead. "Your fever's breaking; the infection hasn't spread, and you do not seem to have contracted the taint."

"Taint?" His voice was scratchy. His mind was a blur as he tried to piece together what had happened. "Who are you?"

She smiled. The face paint, which had looked surreal and almost frightening with her ghostly eyes, actually enhanced the smile. "I am Viviane, of the Chasind. And you are Fergus. You told me the first night we brought you here." She nodded and more hands were at him again, this time helping him to sit up so he could see the rest of the room. "It's been nearly a week."

Fergus. Fergus Cousland of Highever, son of a Teyrn, commander of Highever's army until his father arrived at Ostagar. He took in the room some more as his clarity of mind slowly filtered back into him. ]It was very much a country dwelling, though less primitive than he would have expected from a Chasind.

"We don't sleep in hide tents, if that's what you're thinking." Viviane's voice cut through his thoughts. Her smile had disappeared, but she did not seem offended. "If you're curious, you're in one of the Korcari trees. I'll let you see out when you're able to walk."

"When will that be?" Fergus asked, more concerned about being able to walk than the news he was stuck in a hut built in a tree. He tried to sit up, but the fire seared through his stomach and ribs again and he winced.

"You were gravely injured," Viviane said, turning to see him. "Many of your soldiers, as well. The darkspawn came up from the Uncharted Territories. You were ambushed."

He closed his eyes and tried to fit Vivane's words into the gaps in his memory. He saw faces, twisted mockeries of human. There was the scent of darkness and the splash of blood. Screams. Roars. "We were scouting to bring information back to the king," he said slowly. "If they got past us…"

Viviane sat at a small wooden table and began working with her mortar and pestle, shaking herbs out of jars. "That first influx of darkspawn was killed by the dragon," she said, as nonchalantly as if she'd been talking about a Mabari hound. "A hunting party saw the dragon and then came for the rest of us, and we found you."

"Dragon?" Fergus asked, but Viviane only nodded as she worked. "My men?"

"Recovering in other areas of our encampment. Some were tainted and turned." She said this with a note of bitterness in her voice. "You'll have to forgive our hunters for doing what was necessary." She got up to take an iron kettle off the fire, and poured the herb mixture into the steaming water. "The others are recovering from their injuries."

"What of Ostagar?" Fergus's mind was racing as quickly as his heart.

"Disaster," Viviane said, pouring the tea into a handmade stone mug. She sniffed at the steam and nodded her approval. "You and your men are the lucky ones."

Fergus finally took a moment to appraise his own wounds. His legs were splinted and bandaged, but the fact he could feel pain in them was a good sign: it meant his spine wasn't irreparably injured. One arm was also bandaged against his bare torso, which was scratched and bruised, but cleaned of dried blood, and in spite of himself, he blushed. He glanced over at Viviane, who was regarding him with hint of a grin on her painted face. "Due to the nature and extent of your injuries, you'd better get over thinking of me as a woman," she told him. She brought over the tea. "You've not been ill yet after the water, so I think you'll be ready for this."

Fergus reached up to take the mug in his good hand, but Viviane held it out of reach. "Get used to me doing most things for you while you are unwell, too." She stirred the tea with a spoon, then proceeded to feed Fergus the tea as if he were a child. It was beyond embarrassing; he was a future Teyrn, after all. But the more the herbs worked on his injuries, the more his pride dissolved and he realized that he wouldn't have been able to do this himself.

He was reminded of when Oren took sick last winter. The poor child hadn't been able to keep anything down, and he'd burned with fever for days. He remembered Orianna's drawn, pale face; the purple blotches beneath her eyes as she held the cool cloth on Oren's forehead, even though Nan and a mage healer his father had hired direct from the Circle were there. He remembered the mage's kind amber eyes, and the way his straw-colored hair fell in his face, not unlike the way Viviane's did now. Was it a healer thing? To be so consumed with caring for another that you forgot yourself?

Orianna and Nan prayed; even Fianna took a break from her usual habits to come in and sit with her nephew. He'd never seen Fi so serious before or after Oren's illness. It was as if the little boy's plight brought it out in her. She kept glancing between Oren and the mage, and the trio of armed templars that had been brought to guard the mage. Her greenish eyes seemed to _dare_ the mage to fail. And then there was the moment when the mage, Anders, Fergus now recalled, staggered back and proclaimed Oren's fever broken. He was so pale he was nearly bluish, but the templars took him by the arms, thanked the Couslands, and left that very hour.

They took turns spoon-feeding Oren first water, then weak tea, and finally broth. He'd held Oren to him while Fianna took a turn with the mug and spoon. She shook her dark auburn hair out of her eyes. "I don't know if I could do it," she told her brother. "Love someone so much, and then watch them almost… you know." He patted her leg and she managed a smile.

"Are you in pain?" Viviane's concerned voice cut through Fergus. He sniffed and that hurt, but the physical pain was welcome.

"I was remembering my wife and son. And my sister," he said, searching for a kerchief to wipe his eyes, but finding none. "I apologize. You are being so good to me."

Viviane's response was silence. She searched his face with her strange pale eyes then set the mug on the table. "You will likely experience such things while healing. When the body is still the mind has nothing else to do but think. For now, you should rest."

"But I'm not… wait, I am." Fergus felt sleep seeping into him, blurring the edges of his consciousness. The pain faded and his vision grew fuzzy and dark, but the feeling was pleasant.

Viviane collapsed into her chair by the fire and let out her breath in a long sigh. While she'd made her work seem easy and effortless during the survivor's consciousness the fact was it was tiring, achingly difficult work. And no one else was going to help her, because she'd taken the advice of the Witch.

What she hadn't told Fergus the survivor was that the dragon had come to see her. The dragon visited her in her dreams and whispered of the darkspawn threat, and when Viviane had woken to the screams of her people, and had looked out to see that huge shadow of death blocking out the sun, she'd known she would be alone in this.

Viviane was an apprentice healer, but supposed that now she would be fully instated as a healer amongst her people. If they could get over the fact that the Witch of the Wilds had helped her. If they could ignore the fact that the dragon had sought her out for this task.

"Please, Flemeth. Please take him," Viviane had begged when she saw the broken man in the icy swamps. "His injuries are beyond my skills."

Flemeth had smiled that mysterious smile that said she knew more than anyone. "His injuries will push you, child. But if you bring him through this, then you will be seen as truly great amongst your people. Perhaps even his. Besides." Her eyes took on that far away look Viviane had seen on so many occasions when she'd snuck to the Witch's window and seen her talking to her bored, dark-haired beauty of a daughter. Like she was seeing beyond. "I will have my own healing to do on someone who truly _is_ beyond your skills. Call your hunters to take him. Use this." She pressed a pouch of herbs into Viviane's trembling hand. "It will help." And then the mists swirled and the light flashed and the Witch was gone. Huge leathery dragon wings beat the air and Viviane covered her face to protect herself, and then even the dragon was gone, as if plucked from the sky by something even larger and more powerful.

Now as Viviane watched Fergus sleep, she was pleased with how the color had returned to his skin. His pallor was gone, and his breathing was much less labored. She did allow herself a smile, because the men who'd helped carry him in had said she was crazy and he was beyond help.

Perhaps the Witch was right.

Perhaps Viviane would finally find the respect among her people that she deserved. Or they would see Fergus's improvement as a sign of dark magic from the Witch. Viviane sighed. They would see what they wanted to see, and that was that. Spirits willing, she would have him healed and ready to head back to his family soon.

If the darkspawn didn't get to any of them first.


	4. Fate or Chance

_Chapter 4:Fate or Chance_

Korcari Wilds; Flemeth's hut south of Ostagar

Flemeth sniffed the air. Winter was coming, and bringing with it the darkness of the Blight. Her daughter had disappeared over the northern horizon with the two remaining Grey Wardens just a few days ago. Morrigan was now far beyond Flemeth's reach, as were the two Wardens. It was up to them to end the growing stain of darkness upon Ferelden.

Flemeth taken flight to oversee the battle at Ostagar, and hadn't quite been prepared to rescue the two human Wardens. But they'd been hopelessly outnumbered. Wounded, weapons dragging, they fought on but it was clear they were losing. Flemeth didn't know what manner of emotion caused her to swoop down and scoop up man, woman, and dog and bring them back to the hut for healing. And as she sniffed at and felt the air currents shifting around her, she still wondered the question that plagued her for the better part of an age: was it fate or chance?

It was a question she asked often, and now wondered of herself yet again as she turned to the stilted hut that looked as if it were leaning into the bog behind it. It was built in the Chasind style, but though Flemeth shared the Chasind's lands, they gave her a wide berth. Most were afraid of her, which was wise; but most did not know _why_ they feared her, which was unwise. Flemeth had never given them any reason to fear her. It was those damned legends. All that superstition.

"Eat their children, indeed," she muttered as she headed inside. Her home was small and it was rough but it was clean and neat, and just the sort of out of the way place she'd needed throughout the years. Now she was more grateful for the privacy than ever.

Flemeth put a kettle on and stoked the fire, then lifted the curtain between the main room and the bedroom. Just a few days ago the female Warden had lain here, recovering. Her broken back had taken a toll to mend, but she was young and resilient, thank that Maker they all seemed so fond of. Her injuries had been the more serious of the two, and Flemeth had thought that once she sent them all off she might have some peace.

Then she went to survey Ostagar.

The rout of the king's armies had been brutally complete. The darkspawn only scattered because they feared the dragon soaring overhead. Something about Morrigan's words had stuck with her. "Why save _them?_" she'd asked with customary disdain. "Certainly their king would have been more worthwhile. If anything he'd fetch a handsome ransom."

"Always thinking with your senses, girl," Flemeth had snapped back as her magic lingered in the female Warden's damaged spine. "If you don't know by now that things are not what they seem, then I have taught you nothing, and you may as well not be my daughter." And she'd sent Morrigan to gather elfroot, even though they already had plenty.

But Morrigan's words chanced to echo in her mind, and she descended into the valley. The smell of decay thickened the air into a porridge of death. The dead were all around and try as she might, Flemeth could not avoid stepping on a hand here, an arm there. Crushed and broken bodies lay by useless weapons. The ground was spongy with shed blood. The air was silent but for the moaning…

Moaning?

Flemeth listened more intently and moved carefully in the direction of the sound. The pallid sun glinted on armor, drawing her eyes… and yes, the man was alive. Barely. It was a true talent to transform into her dragon body and pluck him from the human wreckage without causing further damage to him.

So now he lay behind the curtain and his injuries would sap her even more than that girl's had. Perhaps she would send word to Viviane. Though not a mage, the girl had a talent for healing that bordered on the magical.

The kettle had been whistling for some time, which Flemeth noted just now. She took it off the heat and poured the water into a bucket, where it sent up ghosts of steam. She added a good deal of elfroot, and the air began to smell pleasantly of the herb. She took out clean rags and entered the healing room.

Out of his massive armor, he wasn't much to look at. His body was surprisingly lithe for a man who fought with a two-handed greatsword. His limp hair hung in tangles over his shoulders, and his chest rose and fell too quickly. Flemeth frowned. His breathing was too shallow; his skin was grayish and his lips were almost blue.

Flemeth spread her hands palms down over his body, not quite touching his marble-pale and cold flesh. She closed her eyes and felt the pain radiating out of him. She moved her hands. His limbs seemed intact, which was surprising. But his torso was a mess of crushed bone. That he still lived was nothing short of miraculous. She opened her eyes and looked into that stony reposed face and felt all that pain rolling off him in waves as dark as the taint. "Fate or chance?" she whispered.

She could never be sure. She laid a cloth over his sweating brow, then rinsed his blood-streaked limbs with the elfroot-infused water. As he grew warmer some color began to return to his skin, though his lips remained bluish. She paused to listen to his breathing. It was labored, as was his heart. Flemeth held her hands over him. She was tired, but if she did not use her magic there would be no hope for him. As it stood Flemeth was still amazed he was alive at all.

Her magic reached out like tendrils sprouted from her fingertips and took root in his body. She hummed a tune with no true melody as she worked, following the pathways of his body and feeling for where the pain was worst. His pelvis, ribs, and lower spine had been all but crushed. Flemeth drew on her reserves of strength and power and began to knit the bones back the best she could.

It was long work. The small splinters had found their ways into his lungs; blood had pooled in his abdomen. But when Flemeth at last looked up, her own limited human body feeling the shaking and straining of such intense healing, he was breathing much more easily and some of the blue tinge had left his lips. She bathed his open wounds in more elfroot water. She paused to try and detangle his light blond hair. "I told your father that that man would betray him each time worse than the one before. This… may be his final betrayal. But not all hope is lost. You'll see to that, I'm sure."

His answer was silence.

But Flemeth still smiled her slow, knowing smile. Fate or chance? Perhaps it wasn't an either/or sort of question. Perhaps it was a stroke of both. Chance had allowed her to find her patient still alive, even if just barely, on the ruined battlefield at Ostagar; and he would return to see to the fate of Ferelden.

She heard a timid knock on her door, and still smiling, bid the knocker to enter. Shy steps sounded on the creaky wooden floor. "Hello, Viviane."

"Hello… Flemeth." Viviane's hesitation made her voice shake, though when Flemeth turned to see her, the girl was doing her best to hold herself straight and proud. She was clearly nervous, but the determined set of her painted jaw earned Flemeth's approval. "I've come for more of your herbs. My patient woke." She craned her neck around to see over Flemeth's shoulder, into the small room behind the Witch of the Wilds. "How does yours fare?"

Flemeth turned quickly and drew the curtain over the doorway. "He'll fare well enough if he's given the time to rest, and fool girls don't come by to bother him," she said, but her tone was good-natured, and Viviane seemed unscathed by it. It was so unlike Morrigan. Morrigan didn't have the sense to fear her mother, and yet Flemeth's usual sharp comments drew hurt glares from her. But Viviane had a healthy caution around her, and managed to let Flemeth's sarcasm roll off her shoulders. If Morrigan was truly beyond Flemeth's reach now, perhaps Viviane would suffice as a surrogate daughter…

She dismissed her thoughts. They tended to ramble like the brooks that fed the swamps of the Korcari Wilds. Sometimes they ended up in interesting places; other times, they just served to feed the old madwoman image Flemeth was fond of.

"Your patient?" she asked Viviane, her words startling the younger girl.

Viviane squared her shoulders. "He regained consciousness and has no sign of the taint. He should recover, but his bones have broken very badly. He asked when he would walk again, and I had not the heart to tell him he should be wondering 'if' he'll walk again. And he spoke of his wife and child."

"He is lucid then, and the fever did not harm his mind," Flemeth said and Viviane nodded in response. It was her turn to stare over Viviane's shoulder, out the window, to the rolling, icy swamps beyond. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of elfroot and firewood and feeling the currents of magic and time coursing within her. "Tend to him closely," Flemeth said, eyes still closed. "He will be important."

Viviane stared at the curtain over Flemeth's shoulder now. The entire time she'd been there neither woman had looked the other in the eye. "I will. Can you… cast about for the future?"

Now Flemeth's yellow-amber eyes met Viviane's moonlight-pale ones. A ghost of a smile alit on her thin lips. "You tread dangerous ground girl," she said.

Viviane clenched her fists at her sides, and under her intricate face paint, she was flushing red. "I don't ask this for myself. The man has a family. I ask for him, and for their sakes."

Flemeth found Viviane's naïveté both refreshing and problematic. But she stood there, so proud, like Morrigan, but with conviction. Her own daughter was proud, but rode the tides of time and change like a gull, with no point or purpose. At least yet; ideally her voyage with the Wardens would prove purposeful. But Viviane was a hawk, focused on what she wanted and ready to grasp at it and hold onto it.

Flemeth sighed and closed her eyes while tapping into the currents of time and space and existence that flowed around everyone, rarely seen and even more rarely experienced. It was like stepping into a swiftly moving stream, swollen from spring rains and melted snows, rushing toward an endless ocean of uncertainty. If one were not careful, it could sweep one away into a fate worse than the Fade for all eternity.

Certain threads and currents reached out to tantalizingly caress her consciousness. Morrigan's darkness, twisting around the light of the two Grey Wardens; the deep purple of the barely living man just the next room over; and near his, wavering closer and closer, the man Viviane had saved. Flemeth reached toward the thread and focused.

When she opened her eyes at last Viviane was watching her with concern. "Are you unwell, Flemeth?"

"I have seen things that would make you weep all your days," Flemeth said, "and things that would make you laugh your life away. I have been at the ends of extremes. And it leaves one, while not unwell, not quite well enough." She forced a smile onto her thin lips. "As for your man, his family will not worry after him. I can assure you of that."

Viviane sighed and her shoulders slumped, as if a great weight had been removed from her. "That is welcome news. He will be glad of it." Flemeth handed her a pouch of herbs, but didn't quite let go, forcing Viviane nearer. "What is it?"

"His family will not worry after him because they are all dead." Flemeth watched Viviane's face drop, her light eyes misting over with tears. "Do not tell him yet," she warned. "The news will pain him beyond measure. He must live, but more importantly, must also have a will to keep living. Do you understand?"

Viviane nodded, the tendrils of light blonde hair sweeping across her painted cheeks as she did so. "What do I do when he recovers? When he wants to see his family? What do I tell him?"

This time Flemeth's smile was genuine. "When he recovers you bring him to me. He and my patient will be powerful allies."

Viviane's sadness seemed to lift slightly. "Why? Who is he?" She looked at the drawn curtain again, curious, but daring to pull it back and see the mangled body for herself.

"The king of Ferelden," Flemeth said. "He lives."

The clouds broke, sending rays of sun over the bogs and marshes of the Korcari Wilds. The light was pale and the light was weak. But it was there.


	5. Inception

_Chapter 5: Inception_

The Fade

When he was younger, maybe fifteen or sixteen, Cailan had begged his father to let him attend the execution of a man suspected of selling secrets to the Orlesians. Maric had resisted for days until at long last, Cailan wore him down. "Being a king will steal your soul one bit at a time," he often told his son. This time when he sat him down in the study, their blue eyes meeting across the polished desk, he was more serious than ever.

"As king, you hold peoples' lives in your hands. If you are a bad king, they will follow you out of fear; if you are a good king, they will follow you out of love. You must never abuse your power and be a bad king, but you must never take advantage of their love for you; that is paramount to being a bad king." Cailan had nodded, eyes darting around the study, looking anywhere besides his father's serious face. He wondered what any of this had to do with wanting to see an execution for himself. "Cailan, look at me." He obeyed his father. "Sentencing someone to death, even if they are guilty, is not something to be taken lightly. Do you know why I attend the executions of the treasonous?"

"Because they betrayed Ferelden, and betrayed you," Cailan said with a shrug. "They deserve to die, and you should be the last person they see."

Maric's smile was almost sad. "I wish it were so simple. I go because I need to remind myself of the decision I made, and not to make any such future decisions lightly. The people follow me because I saved Ferelden. I can't take that for granted, nor can I go about executing people as I see fit. Then I'd be no better than Meghren was."

It always amazed Cailan how easily Maric could say that name. Meghren had ordered the execution of Queen Moira, Maric's mother. He'd had her head put on a pike outside this very palace. The thought of someone doing that to the grandmother Cailan had never known made him so angry he could hardly even think the name. And yet his father spoke it as easily as any other name. Any other name but Alistair's, that was.

Maric leaned back, making his fingers into a steeple and staring at Cailan over the apex. Cailan sat up straighter, tried to seem more adult.

"You must understand that it will be no small matter to watch a man die," Maric said at last, but after his serious lecture a moment before Cailan couldn't feel elation at getting his way. "And that one day you may hold many lives in your hand and watch many men die because of you."

Maric rarely spoke of his time in the rebellion, those turbulent days of Ferelden's past before Cailan was born. But Cailan had read the history in the books: the disasters at West Hill and White River, often overshadowed in favor of Maric and Loghain's scorching victory at the River Dane. And he had read the history etched in the lines on Teyrn Loghain's face, and seen it in his father's eyes when he thought his son wasn't looking. And he knew that while they were talking about the execution of this one traitor, every death Maric ordered reminded him of those disasters he'd led his men to, and each time it pulled away another piece of his soul.

But Maric was good as his word, and the next morning he and Loghain stood on either side of Cailan, surrounded by guards dressed in the bright golden Theirin livery, as the spy was led to the gallows. Cailan watched him curiously. He was an ordinary looking man: dark hair worn a bit long, light skin, in need of a shave. He looked afraid.

Cailan glanced up at Loghain, but the man was solid as a rock, his jaw clenched in anger. This man had been convicted of selling out to the hated Orlesians, after all. He glanced over at his father, who watched the doomed man with something akin to sadness on his face.

The executioner read the crime of espionage and high treason. The crowd booed around them, and as Cailan watched he had the curious sense of being outside of himself. Was he really here? Was he really watching the hangman tighten the rough noose around this so ordinary-looking man's neck? Was he really meeting the condemned man's eyes?

And then a trap door was pulled and the rope went taut. The man kicked and struggled like a fish washed up on the shore of Lake Calenhad: so close to survival, but chances waning every moment. His hands pulled at the ropes binding them behind his back. His face took on a purplish tinge in the shadows the morning sun threw over the courtyard of Fort Drakon. His eyes bulged and then as suddenly as the struggles had started, they were over. The man was no longer a man but a body pulling the rope taut and swaying gently.

That night those glazed and bulging eyes haunted Cailan every time he tried to close his eyes and sleep. He knew his father slept right down the corridor from him, but he couldn't make himself go wake him and prove Maric right.

That dead gaze stayed with him, demanding his attentions. It was the first time Cailan had ever seen a dead body.

And when he'd become king four years later, Loghain and the guards dealt with those aspects of life in Denerim that might prove _unpleasant_ for the king. He wanted to tell them, no, please let me handle it because I'm the king. They didn't let him.

Ostagar was his chance.

But now as he stood in a dull, gray-brown landscape that rolled on and on forever, those dead eyes came back to haunt him. He looked up at the sallow, sunless sky, streaked with clouds in shades of greenish and brown and violet, like bruises overhead.

Cailan turned in a circle, trying to remember what he was doing here. The steep walls of the valley rose around him like jaws ready to clamp shut on him. He began to climb up the embankment and realized he had no clothes or shoes on, and yet the bracken did not tear at his skin. When he reached the top of the steep incline he wasn't breathless. Around him stood the cracked and crumbling ruins of Ostagar.

From here he could look down to the valley he'd climbed out of, and he saw the dead piled like mountains. From here he could see the ground stained red up and down the narrow valley as far as he could see in any direction. Across the mouth of the ravine he saw the hazy Tower of Ishal, with the lit beacon burning a pallid orange against the sickly sky.

His heart beat faster and he walked away from the lip of the valley, inward to the camp. Tents were burned. Bloated, dead bodies lay scattered about, but bulging glazed eyes followed him. No matter where he went Cailan could not hide himself from those dead stares.

_You left us to die,_ they seemed to say. _You led us to defeat. Us! Your own people!_

He kept walking, hands over his ears so he did not have to hear the accusations. But it was to no avail, for the whispers were in his mind. And everywhere his bare feet stepped, the ground squelched underfoot with their blood.

Cailan crouched at the bridge leading to the Tower of Ishal. The beacon had been successfully lit; so why so many dead? His strategy had been solid! They would draw in and engage the darkspawn forces and then upon the lighting of the beacon, Loghain would flank the enemy and they'd celebrate a glorious victory. But as Cailan hugged his arms to himself and dared a glance back down into the gully, he knew something had gone terribly wrong.

He squeezed his eyes closed. This was one of those times his father had warned him about. He hurt all over with the pain of what had become of so many good soldiers. It wracked his naked body, and he buried his head in his hands and felt the pain of his soul being picked at and plucked at and taken from him.

At long last he opened his eyes and blinked away the sorrow. He stood and turned to see the ranks of the decaying dead watching him. They did not advance, merely watched him with lifeless, glassy eyes. The silence was heavy as plate armor, and just as intimidating.

The front lines of dead Fereldans wore Grey Warden livery, but he also saw some Highever heraldry as well. Fergus's men. They'd gone to war and died while their commander was lost scouting in the Wilds. But they loved the Teyrn of Highever, and did as he asked. All of these men and women had done was Cailan had asked out of love for them, and he'd let them die.

"I've betrayed your love and your trust," he said, his voice sweeping away the silence and ringing out over the ranks of the gathered dead. "But I will see it made right. I will make your deaths mean something. Anything."

A sigh rolled out from the dead men and women. The soldiers all relaxed and began to sink to the ground. However, their gazes remained trained on their king, as if they dared him to betray them again. As he turned and took the first resolute steps toward the Tower of Ishal, burning more brightly now, he felt that he left a part of himself with them.

He didn't know how far he journeyed. There was no way to judge time's passage in the shifting, rolling landscape that he was beginning to think was the Fade. This he found curious and maybe a bit troubling, because only mages could wander the Fade at will, or those ensorcelled by demons. _I don't remember demons,_ he thought, trailing his hand along the ghost of a wall, which disappeared in a cloud of green mist when his fingers brushed it.

Sometimes it looked like Ostagar; other times he had fleeting glimpses of Denerim on the horizon; Fort Drakon speared the sepia sky. But always, all around him, blood pooled on the ground and the twilight was as endless as the road he walked on. It gave him the curious feeling he was walking in circles. As he approached the south, or what he thought would be the south because the fuzzy faded ruins of Ostagar were visible again, he began to see faces.

Not the faces of the dead, but faces of people he knew. And only in fleeting glimpses. He thought he saw his father, serious, and even a little sad. But when he tried to meet Maric's blue eyes, the images was gone. He caught a glimpse of Anora, lithe and lovely with her hair pinned at the back of her neck. She watched him, but sure enough when he tried to look at her directly, she too vanished. And blurry, standing just by the line of the horizon, he recognized Alistair's build, and with him a young woman, but more details he couldn't discern.

Cailan continued along the arc of his travels, ignoring the icy sadness that filled him. Was this regret, then?

As he passed Fade-Ostagar the landscape took on the misty, swampy endlessness of the Korcari Wilds. There was a little hut on the edge of an icy lake and next to it stood a woman with white hair. The way it stood up around her head gave her an almost draconic appearance, but Cailan was certain it must be the effects of the Fade. Yet when he looked at her directly her bright amber eyes met his, and she didn't dissolve into the mists. She smiled.

"And so the prodigal son returns," she said, clapping her hands together like a small child would. "Or does he?"

"Where am I returning to?" Cailan asked. The woman kept grinning as her amber gaze swept over him, and he realized he was still naked. "And can I get some clothes?" he added.

"Whatever for, boy?" she asked.

"Well… I'm naked."

"You are vulnerable," she corrected. "Understanding your vulnerability is the most important thing for you to do right now."

Cailan looked down at his body, which had taken on hues of violent violet and green and yellow. His hands were covered in blood, drip, drip, dripping into the spongy ground below. "You're not invincible. This isn't something you can do yourself, no matter how much you wish it were so."

"Then who can do it?"

"They've already started," she said. "But they fight a war on two fronts, and can only win one. You must take the other front."

"How?" Cailan asked. "Are you talking about the Blight?"

She sniffed. "Just like your father," the woman said. "A one-track mind. Forget the Blight, boy; the darkspawn are the concern of the Grey Wardens. But the kingdom is your concern."

Cailan covered his nakedness with bloody hands to no avail. The woman didn't seem to notice, or to care. If anything she seemed to find his vulnerability, and subsequent embarrassment, amusing. "Stop it," she said at last. "You will have more pressing concerns than what you're wearing. Or not," she added with a wink that made him flush. "The sooner you get over yourself the better."

"I am over myself," he snapped, though somehow he knew being defensive wasn't really the best course of action right now. "Tell me what happened at Ostagar," he said instead.

"For that, you will have to come inside," she said, holding the door open.

Cailan looked into the hut, the doorway a dark mouth opening up to devour him. "What will I see?"

"Many things: things that were, things that are, and some things that have not come to pass," she said with her grin. "But the real question is, are you ready to face what was so that you can change what will be?"

Cailan stared into the darkness, but even more disconcerting, the darkness stared back. He felt it seep into him. He wanted to shirk away and continue wandering the green and sepia mists of the Fade. When he stepped back from the woman and the darkness the bruises on his torso began to fade away into smooth, pale flesh stretched over hard muscles. But when he moved back toward her, the colors began to come back.

Fear gripped Cailan around his middle. Pain engulfed him and he wanted to stumble back into that endless unknown of the Fade, rather than into the darkness that stretched out for him. But the woman was watching him and when she exhaled steam floated like a ghost from her nostrils, and Cailan thought there was something almost dragon-like about it. His feet shambled forward.

As he made his way toward that doorway, reaching out to it with hands dripping the blood of his soldiers and his men and women, he exploded with pain.


	6. Awake and Alive

_Chapter 6: Awake and Alive_

_Korcari Wilds; Flemeth's hut south of Ostagar_

Cailan had never been one to ease into things, and his return to the world of the living was no exception. He took in the wooden walls, the glow of the fire, and the most of all the pain that rolled off of him in waves.

"Wh…where am…" His voice scratched his throat and his lungs burned while febrile shaking wracked his body.

His voice and movements brought a woman in and his heart nearly stopped. Her hair was long, lank and gray and her face, hands, and body withered and old, but her shrewd amber eyes were so familiar that he wasn't sure if he felt relief or fear.

"Well. The prodigal son returns," she said in a raspy voice and he decided he felt fear at her familiarity. "Calm down, boy. You'll just hurt yourself more." She placed a cool cloth on his head, then got up and put another log on the fire and soon the temperature in the room was soaring. But Cailan felt a bit better. She peeled back the blanket and he wanted to cover what she exposed, which was silly. He'd been with women before and had never been ashamed of his nakedness. This was different; she regarded him not as a man, but as a specimen. As if she were examining him like one might examine a lamed horse.

"Do you remember anything?" she asked as she laid pungent smelling cloths over his aching torso.

"About what?" he asked through gritted teeth. The herbal scent was sharp at first, but the heat soothed his muscles and the scent faded to something sweet and relaxing. "I think… there was a battle. And I lost it." The realization was almost more painful than whatever was going on in his torso. And it hurt his pride far worse than an old woman draping herbed poultices over his naked body.

She drew the blankets over his body, trapping the poultices against him and sealing the heat against his skin. "Your memory is surprisingly good."

"How long…" The Fade was timeless, as limitless as the human mind, which was made it so dangerous. Cailan had no way of knowing just how much time had passed, either since Ostagar, or since his dream had ended and he'd regained consciousness.

"It's been nearly two weeks since you were found on the battlefield," she said.

He almost sat up, but the pain left him seeing stars. Two weeks: the Blight could have taken total hold of Ferelden. All could be lost even as he lay here wondering why he'd survived when so many else had died. He settled back and winced, as though contorting his face muscles could siphon the pain out of his midsection. "Two weeks. Did anyone else survive?"

At this the woman's smile disappeared and she stared out the one small, frosty window, and out across the wilds. "Two Wardens. Male and female." She turned back to him. "I found them as I found you."

There was pain in his chest, from more than the healing bones. "Only two? Duncan?"

"Unfortunately the Warden-Commander is dead," the woman said. "As I expect he expected. I can't be certain why, but the survivors were the youngest members of the order."

At that Cailan did sit up, disregarding the horrible pain that flamed up in him. "Alistair?"

"Yes, yes, that was his name," she said. "He has meaning to you?"

Cailan propped himself on his elbows, though the effort left him gasping and sweating. "I sent him to light the beacon. I hoped keeping him out of the battle would keep him safe. And it did." He smiled, almost indulgent, as he fell back. "Where…"

"North," she said, looking back out the window. "After that, I can't say. Wherever they've gone, they are beyond my reach." She poured hot water into a mug, and he smelled something sweet and pungent. "They have a difficult road ahead. But you may be able to assist them." She helped Cailan sit up enough to sip from the mug. He spluttered at first, but then got the hang of it. It coursed down his throat and into his stomach and the heat seemed to radiate through his body.

"Assist them?" he asked, voice sleepy and slurred.

"When your wounds have healed more," she said.

Darkness ebbed at his consciousness, but Cailan still had to know one thing. "How did I get wounded?"

The woman smiled. "My boy, this is what happens when you cross an ogre the wrong way."

_Korcari Wilds, just north of the Uncharted Territories; Chasind lands_

Standing didn't hurt so much anymore. Fergus leaned on the wall and looked out the window of Vivane's home, built into the large branches of the tall Korcari tree. The ground seemed so far down and he wondered how he would get there when he was ready to leave. Viviane said he was progressing well, which he appreciated, but felt uneasy about. It had only been two weeks, and he'd been in such horrid pain at first. He'd examined his injuries once when he'd woken and Viviane hadn't been around. The extent of the bruising was great, and several deep slashes had been sewn up. The stitches were close and tight, but there would be long puckering scars.

But the breaks in his bones were healing up more quickly than natural, and he suspected magic. Viviane didn't look like a mage, but then again, if she were an apostate, he'd never know if she was a mage or not. But magic of some sort, even herbal, had to be involved. He'd been thrown from a horse when he was younger: his first stallion. His father warned him that he needed to spend more time in the ring, but Fergus couldn't help but show off when King Maric came to visit once, and brought Cailan along. Cailan was an excellent horseman even as a teenager, and they'd gone riding on the trails out of the orchards. Fergus's horse spooked; to this day he didn't know why. But the stallion had reared up, catching Fergus off guard, and he'd fallen.

He remembered the crunch in his arm and shoulder. Remembered Cailan galloping off after his horse, and then returning. "Don't worry, Fergus. My father's a lousy rider, too," he'd said. "King of Ferelden can't stay on a horse." He laughed over that, but Fergus didn't find it too funny.

It had taken his arm well over a month to heal, and even then Fergus's muscles had atrophied and it took time to rebuild strength enough to bear his shield. And even longer to get back on his horse.

Fergus looked out over the marshes, partially obscured by the leaves that still clung to Viviane's tree. He didn't have his bearings; couldn't tell if he was looking south, toward the uncharted icy wastes, west to the southern reaches of the Frostback Mountains, or northeast toward home. The sky was a perpetual gray: not quite cloudy, but never blue and never sunny. It made figuring out his bearings difficult, which frustrated Fergus. It made him feel blind and even more disadvantaged than his physical injuries did.

The door creaked and Fergus turned to see Viviane carrying a wooden tray with solid food on it, as well as another steaming mug of tea. He suspected that whatever she was putting in the tea was helping him heal. Too bad his parents hadn't had any of that when he'd been thrown so many years ago. Sometimes he felt like his shoulder hadn't ever fully healed.

"You're up," Viviane said. She set the tray down. "How are you feeling?"

"Cooped up," he admitted. "Not to sound ungrateful," he added quickly.

She smiled and again he was struck by how it softened her features and even made her ritual face paint look beautiful. "I understand. Perhaps after you eat and if you're feeling well enough you can go down."

"I'd like that," he said and sat down to eat. His appetite had grown, and he barely noticed the aches that shot through him. It was progress. He downed the tea, and his suspicions of magic herbs began to feel more grounded when any pain he did feel ebbed until he hardly felt anything. "How are my men?" he asked around a mouthful of bread.

"Many have already marched north," Viviane said.

"They left without me?" Fergus asked, surprised. And if he were going to be completely honest, a bit hurt.

"There has been news out of your capital city. Those who were well enough felt it best to go where they would be needed and useful," Viviane said. Her face had fallen, and she seemed almost afraid to look at him.

Fergus tried to feel angry, but he just couldn't do it. They'd done the right thing. "What sort of news?" he asked, dropping what was left of his bread into the thick soup Viviane had brought him.

She shrugged. "I'm not sure, but they seemed to find it urgent." She searched his face, and though he tried to keep it expressionless and not show his displeasure, she could still read it there. "I don't know that this makes it better, but they did argue about whether to leave you behind or wait."

"So whatever is happening must be urgent," he said and tried to comfort himself with that thought. But it made him even more desperate to know what was going on outside these walls. "Do you at least know what happened at Ostagar?" he asked. "The ruined fortress," he added.

"Oh, that stone monstrosity built to keep my people trapped on the edge of the uncharted wilds," Viviane said with a hint of an ironic smile.

Fergus felt the heat of a blush creep into his cheeks.

"The battle did not go well," she said. "Nearly everyone was killed."

He blinked. "Everyone?" He'd left a large contingent of Highever men behind while he went out with the smaller scouting party. Guilt twisted his innards. How would he explain this loss to his father? "Does everyone also mean the king?" he asked in a voice that was hoarse in spite of the quantity of tea he'd had.

Viviane shrugged. "I don't know, but I'd assume so. The Wi—I mean, Flemeth told me it was disastrous."

"Flemeth?" Fergus asked, and it was Vivane's turn to blush. "Can you take me to her?"

Viviane seemed distinctly uncomfortable at this request, but Fergus kept his eyes trained on her. She tugged on a tendril of light hair and flicked her pale eyes out the window and fidgeted with the rough cloth napkin on the tray. "Please, Viviane. I need to know what's happening with my country. With my people," he said. "Wouldn't you want to know if it were Chasind?"

"No," she said, surprising him. "Because they wouldn't want to know what happened to me. And it is because of Flemeth that this is so."

"Then you've nothing to lose by taking me to her," Fergus reasoned.

"You're still weak," she protested, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Good thing you'll be with me," he said with a grin. "And maybe you could bring some more herbs with you. Just in case," he added.

"Are you always so persuasive?" Viviane snapped.

"I'm sorry Viviane. But I need to know just how and why everything went wrong."

The climb down the tree was nearly enough to convince Fergus that maybe he should put the notion of seeing this Flemeth behind him. Limbs that could support him well enough while standing felt weak and stretched to the brink. He stood at the base of the tree feeling shaky while cold sweat ran down between his shoulder blades and coated his forehead. He glanced over at Viviane, who almost looked amused.

He couldn't fault her for it, especially since he'd been the one to insist on this. It was like the horse incident. He had to deal with the fall out of his actions, plain and simple.

They made their way slowly through the Chasind village. Not all houses were in trees, but some were built on stilts driven deep into the swamps, leaving what precious dry land was left to serve as pathways. Some had rickety staircases, while others simply had rope ladders that could be dropped down or pulled up.

They passed a hunting party coming back empty-handed. Fergus felt the weight of their stares on him. He dared a sidelong glance and was surprised at the open resentment he saw written there.

"They think you take food from the people, when you are not of the people," Viviane murmured as the party passed out of earshot.

"You shouldn't have saved and fed me at the expense of your people," Fergus murmured back, embarrassed.

"I didn't," Viviane said. "My supplies came from Flemeth, who said it was most important that you survive, and gave me the means to care for you."

"But they don't know that," Fergus said, glancing over his shoulder at the departed party.

Viviane shrugged. "Like I said, I don't get along with them very well."

The walk to Flemeth's was longer than Fergus expected, and he gritted his teeth against the growing pain and the fatigue that tried to wrap itself around him like a blanket. It was cold out here in the marshy Wilds, and the ground was soft underfoot. He wondered if it would be soft to lie down on.

"Silly boy," said a voice, not quite Viviane's, but still female. "And sillier girl, bringing him here."

"He insisted, Flemeth," Viviane said. "His men have left; which makes the tribe suspicious of him. I don't know I can keep him on much longer."

"And why did his men move?" this Flemeth asked, and Fergus was aware of moving again.

"News out of the north," Viviane said. There was the creak of a door and then Fergus was seated in front of a fire with another mug of something hot thrust into his hands.

"Out of the north, eh. Then things are progressing."

"Progressing?"

"Moving onward. I did teach you the common tongue, didn't I?" Flemeth asked.

As Fergus regained his senses he looked over at Flemeth. She was an old woman, and Viviane deferred to her, even accepting criticism and thinly veiled insults. But when he caught the predatory, knowing gleam in Flemeth's eyes, he realized that perhaps it wasn't wise to argue with the woman.

Flemeth stood between him and the fire now, looking down at him. "Are you healed, boy?"

"Not as much as I thought," he said, too tired to feel embarrassed.

Flemeth surprised him by laughing. "You're wise to be honest, rather than resort to bravado," she said. Finally she met his eyes. Her own eyes were a flashing, captivating amber that he couldn't look away from. She saw into him, taking in who he was, where he'd been, where he was going. And then she smiled, not a comforting smile, nor a pleasant grin. The smile that said she knew something more than he did and no matter what he said or did, he wouldn't be able to escape her ploys. "Important indeed," she said, but didn't explain. Of course; that would have been expecting too much. "You have much in common with your sister," she said, and that made him snap out of his stupor.

"My sister? When did you meet Fianna?"

"She left here two weeks ago with the king's brother," she said. And she laughed. "Who would have thought that saving your precious Ferelden would become a family affair!"

Fergus's head was spinning. First with the news that Fianna had been in the Korcari Wilds, and second, that the king had a brother. He'd known Cailan for many years; Cailan was as much an only child as Oren was. But more importantly, Fianna was supposed to be overseeing Highever with their mother. Why had she come so far south?

"Stranger things have happened, boy. Don't look so surprised that this is turning out differently than you'd thought or hoped," Flemeth said, still smiling. Fergus resisted the urge to slap that grin off her face. He didn't know why, but he had the feeling that if he tried to strike out at her, Flemeth would easily reduce him to nothing, old woman or not.

He stared into the fire, running down the list of things he had to do: find Fianna, get a letter to Highever, see if any Highever troops had survived the rout at Ostagar, and if his father had been among them. Find out what was going to happen with the king dead.

"Fergus?"

He turned. Supported by the doorway, wearing not much more than a long chemise that came to his bruised knees, stood Cailan. He looked thin and pale, and sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. He needed a shave and his long blond hair was tangled, but his sharp blue eyes marked him as King Cailan. "Fergus, it is you," he said. And though his voice was still raspy, he sounded overjoyed to see his friend.

He should have fallen to one knee, or at least bowed his head. But at that moment Fergus was so happy to see another familiar face that all he could do was break out into a smile and get up to shake Cailan's hand. "Your Majesty," he said with a grin.


	7. Road to Readcliffe

_Chapter 7: Road to Redcliffe_

The Hinterlands: North of the Korcari Wilds

Cailan grasped the bone knife in his shaking fist. He remembered the dead staring at him with milky glazed eyes, judging him without words. He stared into the mirror, at the face he'd seen countless times, and knew he was not that man anymore. His other hand drifted up and touched the tangled locks of platinum blond hair. He gripped a hunk of hair and brought the knife to it. He stared himself in the eye as he sawed through it. Strands of silver-blond fell on the rough wooden tabletop. His reflection looked somewhat lopsided now.

It was no less than what he actually felt. In the time since what amounted to returning from the dead, he'd spent hours staring at the beams of Flemeth's ceiling trying to reconcile the fact that he hadn't died. Oh, he should have. Flemeth never said much about the true extent of his injuries, but he intuitively knew it had taken powerful healing magic to heal him. And had he been on the field any longer and he might have been beyond all but blood magic.

Cailan kept cutting through the hunks of hair until the table and floor were littered with his pale, straight blond locks. The cut was uneven and a bit long on top and in the front, and flopped over his forehead. He supposed he looked… goofy. He tried a half-smile and then his expression became serious again. With the shorter hair and the apologetic smile and wary eyes, he looked an awful lot like Alistair.

He heard Fergus calling for him and quickly gathered up as much of his mess as he could. He threw the locks into the cold fireplace and silently prayed that Flemeth had a lousy sense of smell. Or that he would be far away when she decided to light a fire on that particular hearth. He ran a hand over his cropped hair and shrugged into a heavy woven cloak. He felt vulnerable leaving without any armor or weapons, but he supposed those to be lost to the darkspawn back at Ostagar.

He'd come to this simple hut in the Wilds as a king; he left now as Cailan, just a man who'd barely survived a massacre.

Fergus looked up, but didn't say anything. Cailan was secretly glad; he didn't feel like explaining his actions to Fergus. There would be enough to explain to him on the road. Like why his brother and Fergus's sister were now teamed up and trying to save Ferelden.

Flemeth was nowhere in sight, but Viviane was sitting in the driver's seat of a simple, rough-hewn cart, holding the reins of two harnessed donkeys. A wolf-pelt cloak covered her traditional Chasind garments which, while skimpy, must have been deceptively warm. If she was nervous about leaving, she didn't show it, only gestured for Fergus and Cailan to climb in. The feeling of being ordinary and vulnerable settled heavily on Cailan's shoulders as he stiffly got up and settled on the hard wooden bench, with Fergus across from him wearing a tattered cloak of Highever green.

"Sentiment," he said when he caught Cailan eyeing it. And then his eyes drifted to Cailan's hair. "Not sure what to make of that, though."

"Lack of sentiment," Cailan said with a wry smile, and Fergus grinned.

"You're definitely not a ghost," he said. "Only you could make something like this almost lighthearted."

Cailan snorted as the cart jerked forward, wheels sinking slightly in the spongy ground.

They were quiet for a time, each man lost in his own thoughts.

"This is amazing," Fergus said at last, looking at Cailan as if seeing him for the first time, though they'd been friends from a young age; indeed, Fergus was the closest thing to a true friend Cailan had growing up, and he valued that connection immensely. A teyrn's son, Fergus tended to be in royal company more than most nobles, so perhaps it had just been a natural progression of events. But then again, for a teyrn's son Fergus was good-natured and down to earth, which Cailan welcomed. And if things had to have gone the way they did, he was glad he was setting out with Fergus rather than anyone else.

But he said none of this to Fergus; he simply raised an eyebrow and gestured to the rough wood on which they sat. It was a far cry from the polished leather saddles on the backs of well-bred war horses they were accustomed to. "You mean embarrassing."

Both men sighed and looked at each other across the cart Flemeth had somehow procured, that Viviane was now driving, expertly guiding the two donkeys out of the marshes. "Where in Thedas did she find donkeys, anyway?" Cailan asked, with a glance at Viviane's straight back. She wore a thick fur cloak over the fitted hide clothes and tall, soft leather boots that marked her as a Chasind as much as did her face paint.

"I figured out when it comes to Viviane and Flemeth, not to ask questions," Fergus said. "Rumor was you were killed at Ostagar," he said.

Cailan couldn't fault Fergus for asking; it was better to bring up the topic now, when they were too weak to fight about it, or to run away from the subject. His blue eyes, normally so cheerful, were troubled as he looked around the dull gray-brown landscape. Leafless trees reached from the lifeless earth to the listless sky. "This reminds me of the Fade," he said at last. "This is… this is all real, isn't it?" he asked, at last meeting Fergus's eyes.

"What brought this on?" Fergus asked. "And what would you know of the Fade, anyway? You're not secretly a mage, are you?" He attempted a lighthearted laugh, but it fell as flat as the ground their cart traversed.

"No, but I think I was there before Flemeth's," he said. He drew the furs up around his neck and closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see the lands around them. "I think… I almost did die at Ostagar." He opened his eyes. He didn't want to bring this up, but had to, if only for the sake of being honest with his friend. "Which reminds me, while we're on sensitive topics." His voice held none of its usual mirth, and Fergus stiffened. "Fianna was at Ostagar."

Fergus looked a bit pale, and his face contorted as if he'd just been punched in the gut. "Flemeth said something about her, but I thought she was just lying. Trying to rile me up."

"Flemeth speaks in riddles, but she doesn't lie," Viviane said, glancing over her shoulder. Her cheeks were rosy with the cold beneath her ritual paint. "Often, we must discover the truth on our own rather than have it told to us. Only then can we truly understand it." She turned back to the reins and clucked to the donkeys. There was a slight jerk and the cart moved more quickly through the spongy marshland. But faint against the horizon, Cailan could make out the lines of ruins that marked the Imperial Roads, and felt slightly sick at the prospect of returning to the world of the living, breathing, and fighting.

"What was Fianna doing there?" Fergus asked Cailan.

Cailan regarded him warily, afraid to tell Fergus what he knew, even though he'd opened this can of worms on his own. "She came with Duncan," he said at last.

"The Warden Commander? He was supposed to take Ser Gilmore," Fergus said, sitting up. He searched Cailan's haggard face, worry evident in his gray-green eyes. "She told you what happened," he accused. "Why she was there. What happened? Really?"

Cailan leaned forward, though the action made him grimace with pain. "I'm hoping the fact that your king is alive is good enough news to make up for this." His tone was serious. "Arl Howe turned traitor. Fianna was with Duncan because he saved her life. She barely escaped, and _only_ because she was with Duncan."

Fergus sat back and blinked. "Howe, a traitor? But… he's one of my father's best friends." The news had shocked Cailan, as well. Amaranthine had always been loyal to the crown, and a solid ally of neighboring Highever. And the Couslands of Highever, Fergus's family, had ruled there and been loyal subjects of the Fereldan crown for centuries. None of it made sense.

"I don't know what his motives are, or what his endgame is, but I did promise that when Ostagar was over I would bring my armies north and help retake Highever," Cailan said, surprised at the grim tone in his own voice; when had he become so serious? "That's one promise I can try to make good on." He leaned back again, one arm on the rail of the cart and his eyes turned back to the disappearing Wilds behind them. He had the feeling he was leaving something behind: something he wanted to run back and collect, but he couldn't. And the prospect of moving forward was unusually daunting.

"If Howe turned traitor and killed my father… Maker's breath and Andraste's flaming arse!" Viviane snorted but cleared her throat quickly. He fixed his dark eyes on Cailan. "I'm the teyrn." He leaned back and stared at the sickly sky, his face pale from shock. "What of Oriana? Oren?"

The names of Fergus's wife and child sent a pang through Cailan. He had dreaded Fergus asking this, because he didn't know how to break the news. He wondered who had told Anora that he was dead, and how she'd reacted—if she'd reacted at all, that was. He shook his head. "Fianna was in rough shape. Angry. Sad. Quiet. She's never quiet. That's how I knew something was so wrong." He looked up and made himself meet Fergus's eyes. "I'm sorry, Fergus. We've always been friends, and it wouldn't be fair for me to lie to you now. Your family… they're…" He let his voice trail off. There was such a deep, profound sadness in his eyes and in his voice that it must have made Fergus feel even worse.

Cailan had been at his wedding to Oriana; he'd been one of the first of the nobles to come and personally congratulate him on the birth of Oren. Cailan didn't have any children of his own; it had been one of the strongest points of contention in his marriage to Anora. And not just between him and Anora: between him, Anora, and the whole kingdom.

But thinking of Anora added a whole new set of issues that Cailan didn't want to think about right now.

The rest of the day passed in silence, save for Viviane occasionally checking the donkeys on the rough roads. She made no move to engage either of them in conversation, and if it hadn't been for the waves of pale hair cascading down her back like a waterfall she could have been any hired carriage driver and not the Chasind woman who had saved Fergus's life.

Darkness seemed to descend earlier than usual, and while Fergus attributed it to the coming winter, Cailan's shook his head and looked to the pale horizon. "It's the Blight," he said in a low voice. "It's already claiming the south."

"The darkness taints all it touches: earth, water, sky," Viviane said as she climbed down from the driver's seat. "If we can make it past the Blightlands then our supplies should hold. Have you given thought to where we're going?"

"We?" Fergus asked. He glanced over at Cailan, who had one eyebrow raised.

"Neither of you is any shape to go taking on these strange Ferelden politics of yours," she said, sounding for the entire world like a scolding parent. Her tone left both Fergus and Cailan, two of the most powerful men in Ferelden, shirking back. She softened some. "We'll be safe here for the night, but in the morning we should have a destination."

Cailan had been all over Ferelden, but usually saw it from horseback, and was usually surrounded by a contingent of guards. Now, with only Fergus and Viviane, exposed in the back of a simple cart drawn by donkeys, Cailan felt he was seeing his lands differently. He'd thought he was seeing them differently when he donned his armor at Ostagar. He was a soldier then, leading his troops to protect their homeland from the darkspawn threat. The king of Ferelden would ride in with the fabled Grey Wardens and end the Blight before it even began. It would be a glorious tale to match up to those of his father's escapades during the rebellion.

Now that he was forced to think about it in retrospect, he had to admit that he'd been caught up in the idea of the glory. He'd been raised on Maric and Loghain's tales of the rebellion, how the two of them, with Rowan, pulled the country together to oust the Orlesians. Cailan dreamed of uniting the country against a common enemy on his watch, as well. After all, Ferelden wasn't the place he lived; it was the place he lived for.

And evidently, it was the place someone thought he should die for. As he lay beneath the simple hide tent, listening to the sounds of the night around him, Cailan worked again at piecing the battle back together. The beacon had been lit; that much he was certain of. He'd sent Alistair and Fianna to protect them, but also because he knew they could handle it. He had seen the beacon burning brightly even from the battlefield; there was no way Teyrn Loghain could have missed it. The only explanation he had was that Loghain had quit the field.

But that didn't make sense, either. Loghain was a living legend, an excellent general, and moreover, his father-in-law. He wouldn't leave the king, his son-in-law, to die.

_Would he?_

The whispered uncertainty kept him awake, though he longed to sleep. He hadn't slept well since leaving the palace several weeks ago. The noise of the outdoors kept him up. It always had, even when he'd been younger and gone on trips with his father. Then it was the noises of the night: wolves howling, bugs chirping, night birds tittering, as well as the clank of the night watch. Tonight there were only the outside noises. Viviane had been insistent that they needed no watch, but she would not say why.

"There are darkspawn all around us, not to mention the usual things that lurk at night," Cailan told her. But she still would not relent, and now he lay here, restless.

He tried to roll over on his side, but it hurt. For all Flemeth's magic, there was healing that the body just had to do on its own. He hadn't been able to get much out of her, regarding what had happened to him, but it involved an ogre's fist, and him being on the wrong side of it. He dug in the satchel Flemeth had given him and pulled out the small sachet stuffed with dried and crushed elfroot. Inhaling the pungent herbal scent helped him relax a bit more and dulled the ache, but it did little to help him sleep.

_We need a destination,_ he thought. He knew what Fergus would choose. He'd go straight to Highever, and if that was closed to him, he'd go to Denerim. Cailan had no doubt that Loghain was in Denerim right now, and wouldn't have minded having a few words with him; however, as far as Loghain knew, Cailan was dead. Showing up undead, with no plan and no armies, could end badly. Loghain was not foolish, and if he had purposely abandoned Cailan to die, there was no telling what he would do if Cailan faced the Teyrn unprepared.

Cailan found himself wondering what his father would think. Maric had trusted Loghain with his life, and that of his son; Loghain had helped raise Cailan in many ways. _Father would be royally pissed,_ Cailan decided. _Mother, too_. He only remembered blurry images of his mother, but stories Maric had told him pointed to the fact that Queen Rowan had trusted Loghain as well.

Cailan nearly sat up straight in his sudden excitement. He couldn't believe he'd not thought of this before, especially being so far south already. Redcliffe. Of course! Uncle Eamon, the Arl of Redcliffe and his mother's younger brother, still had his armies intact. Cailan thanked the Maker for his own stubborn pride inadvertently helping him out here. Redcliffe was bound to be well-defended. And what was more, if Alistair was involved, Redcliffe was one of the first places he'd think to go. If he couldn't catch up with his brother, he could at least get news of him. And perhaps Fergus would be able to do the same with Fianna.

He felt better now that he had a direction in mind. Though he'd told Fergus he wasn't sure about the Fade, he knew deep inside that he'd really been there. The images of Ostagar's dead stayed with him even when he was awake. And he knew that while he had to stop the Blight, it was even more important to make things right for the many that had died, taking a piece of his soul along with them.


	8. Return to Redcliffe

_Chapter 8: Return to Redcliffe_

Redcliffe Village

"I still say we should have gone to Highever. There may still have been men loyal to my family." Fergus stared out over Redcliffe Village, which sat on the southern shore of Lake Calenhad. The lake was as gray as steel beneath the dull sky, and the village, which was built into the cliffs of red earth banked into cliffs, was quiet.

"Operative word there is 'may'," Cailan pointed out. "Here we _know_ there are men loyal to me."

The day spent riding in the cart had passed lazily under the wan daylight. Viviane held the reins and looked over the village. "I can wait here on the outskirts," she said.

"Nonsense," Cailan said. Somehow, being here in familiar territory made him feel less tired, achy and uncertain. Being in the alien wilds had made it difficult to feel like the king. Now he steeled himself and held himself straight and proud as he approached the stone bridge leading into the village. Fergus followed him, and after a moment's hesitation he heard the clop of hooves and clatter of wagon wheels as Viviane followed.

The village looked like it had been through a major battle. Fires burned down into scorch marks in the dry grass and the air smelled of smoke rather than fish. Windows were boarded over. "Did the darkspawn make it here already?" Fergus asked, looking around and coughing as they passed a smoking pile of refuse.

"This isn't the taint," Viviane said. "They would raze this entire village if it were the darkspawn. You saw the lands as we came through."

Cailan nodded as they navigated the wooden paths down the cliff sides and into the village. He tried to remember the last time he was here, but things just blended together. The only really important visit he could recall was when he was fourteen and everything he knew about himself and his father had changed. And the last time he'd had words with Eamon hadn't gone well. He hadn't answered Eamon's last letter to him. He hoped he'd been telling Fergus the truth when he'd said there were people loyal to him in Redcliffe.

The courtyard outside the Chantry was scattered with overturned archery targets and muddy footprints. To one side was a pile of white bones. Cailan blinked and for a moment was back in the Fade surrounded by bodies watching him. He shook his head to clear the image; he was afraid he'd never be free of it, and if that was what Maric had meant by his soul being stolen.

He climbed the steps of the Chantry, suddenly wary and afraid of what he'd find when he opened the door.

The scent of sweat and candles wafted toward him and he looked about. Only a few people were there, righting overturned pews and replacing books in bookshelves. They looked up as Cailan passed. His heart began to pound, but there were few glances of recognition. Then he remembered that he'd hacked off his hair before leaving Flemeth's. It had been one of his most distinguishing features. It had only been a couple of days and he was getting used to it. And now he realized the advantage it afforded him. No one would recognize him, especially since he should not be standing before them.

"What happened here?" he asked the nearest man, a hulking person with the kind of epic moustache Cailan had never been able to grow. His brown hair hung lank around his face, soaked with sweat, and he'd rolled up his sleeves.

"Stranger in these parts?" he asked, but when he looked up he stopped short. "You look like that Warden who came through here," he said after examining Cailan's nervous face and rough-cut hair. "They went up to the castle. Along with Bann Teagan."

"Teagan is here?" Cailan asked, his relief at that fact overwhelming his nerves.

The man nodded and pushed his hair out of his red and glistening face. "Though not sure you want to go up there. People who go up don't come back. 'Cept for the two Wardens and their merry band of misfits. Though we owe them our lives, so I can't fault them for going up in the first place," he added. "Name's Murdock, the mayor of Redcliffe Village."

"Thank you for your help, Murdock," Cailan said, exceedingly glad. While he'd been hoping to talk to Eamon, the truth was he'd always gotten on better with Teagan. Eamon had his own ideas about how to run a country. Teagan just listened, sometimes gave advice; but always just let Cailan be.

"Where are we going now?" Viviane asked as Cailan pushed past her and Fergus. She looked tired, and Cailan realized with regret that she'd been doing most of the work while he and Fergus sat around and bemoaned their injuries.

"Just up to the castle. Then you can rest, I promise," Cailan said. "Alistair and Fianna were here," he told Fergus as he strode by his friend. "They may still be here."

The chance to see his brother, alive and well, along with his uncles, made Cailan feel better than any amount of elfroot or healing magic could have. It even made the trek back uphill to the drawbridge leading to the castle seem easy. He headed into the familiar courtyard, feeling elation. Everything would be fine now.

Three guards in Redcliffe heraldry stopped them. "Who are you that come to Redcliffe Castle?" one asked in a very wary voice. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"We've come to see the Arl," Cailan said, looking past the man and down the empty corridor.

"Join the list," another guard said. "You and everyone else. Unless you're the Wardens come back from Denerim, you can leave."

"What about Bann Teagan?" Cailan asked.

"He's coming out for no one but the Wardens, so you can leave."

Cailan steeled himself. "The King of Ferelden demands you grant him access to this castle."

The guard looked him up and down and his face contorted. Cailan was ready for some sort of tirade, or even a shout of joy, but the guffawing peals of laughter that rang off the stone halls and made others look at them. And though he'd grown up the center of attention, for the first time in his life it embarrassed Cailan. "Where've you been? The King died at Ostagar."

Calian didn't know if he should laugh or not, and for another first, he was at a loss for what to say or do. How could he begin to make things right if no one believed that he truly was King Cailan?

Fergus saved him. "I am Fergus Cousland, Teyrn of Highever," he said and his voice was steady, though Cailan could see the nerves evident in the way he clenched his fists at his side. "And as the Teyrn, I demand you grant us passage. All three of us," he added, leveling his hazel eyes at the guards and gesturing for Cailan and Viviane to come closer. When the guards hesitated he sighed and dug in his own pack, and produced a small velvet pouch. He opened it and carefully dropped a heavy gold ring into his palm, then held it out for the guards to examine: the signet of House Cousland, which would be held by the Teyrn or the one acting in his stead.

Cailan could see the guards were nervous to comply, and may have still denied them had they not been afraid of disobeying a Teyrn. But at last they moved and allowed the three of them passage, while a servant dashed out and took the donkeys' reins and others began to unhitch the cart.

Redcliffe castle had been like a second home to Cailan growing up, and he could find his way through the entire castle blindfolded if he needed to. But as they traversed the halls to the main audience chamber, it was different than he remembered it. Aunt Isolde was very particular about keeping house, and the stone floors were always clean and the tapestries always hung straight. Now scorch marks marred the flagstones. Several wall hangings were torn or hanging askew. Chunks of wood had been taken out of door frames with swords. It was as if the battle had moved from the village right up into the castle.

Fergus showed his signet again to the burly guard. The man crossed his arms over his chest and bowed at the waist, the customary Fereldan show of respect for high nobility. "When father made me take this I thought he was crazy. Or maybe just keeping it out of Fianna's hands," Fergus said. "It may actually be really useful to have."

"Especially since no one believes he's the king," Viviane said, catching the attention of the guard. "It's true," she said to both the guard and Cailan. She reached up and fingered the rough edges of his hacked off hair. "We should even this up. If you are the king, you should at least look like it."

Cailan ducked away from her hand and looked to Fergus for help, but he just grinned, momentarily shaken from the grimness of his new role as the Teyrn of Highever.

The guard saved them by finally opening the door to the audience chamber. Fergus went first, with Cailan and Viviane trailing behind. It was strange, seeing the hall from this angle again. The only times he'd entered this hall in the rear were when he'd come with his father. After Maric's disappearance and Cailan's subsequent coronation, that had changed. And now things had changed yet again. He followed Fergus and caught sight of Bann Teagan, his mother's youngest brother, sitting on the dais, half asleep.

He looked awful, another testament that things had fallen apart here in Redcliffe as well as in Ostagar. Cailan lengthened his stride, but Fergus shot him a look of warning, and he hung back, resisting the urge to pout. "You got your way at Ostagar, and look how that turned out," Fergus muttered, and it was like a slap across Cailan's face. "Let me do this."

"Don't let being Teyrn go to your head or anything," Cailan muttered back, and instantly felt badly. Fergus had this role thrust on his shoulders with no time to think about what it meant; he just had to go with it. When his own father had disappeared at sea, Cailan at least had the luxury of staying abed for a few days and letting Loghain and Anora rule. "Sorry," he said under his breath, but if Fergus heard he didn't acknowledge it.

"Bann Teagan," he said in a solid voice. "It's been many years, but you are known to me and my family: Fergus Cousland, acting Teyrn of Highever." The words rolled off his tongue easily. Bryce Cousland had been an excellent coach in matters of nobility. Cailan often wondered why Fianna hadn't taken on more of those traits, but then again, she probably hadn't expected to have to save Ferelden.

Teagan glanced up. He needed a shave, and his clothing was rumpled. But his tired eyes lit up. "Fergus! We thought you lost at Ostagar, or worse, found by Howe." Teagan stood and grasped Fergus's hand. "Your sister was here just a few days ago, along with another Warden by the name of Alistair. They helped clear up some… family trouble," he said, choosing his words carefully.

"What sort of family trouble?" Cailan asked, stepping out from behind Fergus. Teagan stared at him for a long while, his eyes searching Cailan's face. His brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. "You look like a fish out of water when you do that, you know," he told his uncle, flashing him a lopsided grin and looking him in the eye from under his shaggy hair.

Teagan stepped back, face pale. He glanced over at Viviane who stood a couple paces back from Fergus and Cailan. "What have you brought into this castle?" he asked in a hoarse voice. "What have you done, and what do you want?" He groped at his side for a sword but found none. He kept his eyes trained on Cailan.

Fergus glanced to Cailan and shrugged. "Well, I got us in here," he said. "It's up to you to convince him you're not dead and Viviane's not a blood mage."

"Or any sort of mage," she spoke up.

"Uncle Teagan," Cailan said, striding forward and meeting his uncle. "It really is me. Cailan. I'm not dead." He rubbed at his bruised abdomen and winced. "I should be, but I'm not." Teagan still watched him curiously, his eyes wary. "It's the hair," Cailan said at last to Fergus.

"I told you we need to even it up," Viviane said from behind them, but her comment went unnoticed by Teagan. Fergus, however, glanced at her and nodded.

"If you are Cailan, what did you and my brother fight about the last time you were together?" Teagan asked at last.

The question pierced Cailan more deeply than any enemy's arrow could have. This was one more thing that he would have to set right before he could face Loghain, or the rest of the country again. He looked around, and Fergus and Teagan were waiting. He wasn't sure he wanted Fergus to know, since he'd always envied Fergus and Oriana's warm, openly caring marriage. He cleared his throat and ran a hand over his cropped hair. "Uncle Eamon wanted me to reconsider my marriage to Anora and I told him to get out," he said. "I believe I actually told him that it was clear we'd never see eye to eye, and I didn't want to see him again for a long time. And then you and I went for a ride outside of Denerim so I could clear my head," he added.

Teagan's smile was tentative at first, then it spread wider and his eyes brimmed with tears. Cailan expected his uncle to smother him with a hug and braced himself for the impact with his bruised ribs, but to his surprise Teagan fell to one knee and bowed his head. "Your Majesty," Teagan said in a voice strangled by emotions.

Then to Cailan's complete embarrassment, Fergus did the same. One by one the guards around the perimeter of the room did, too. And finally even Viviane gave in to local custom and bowed, her long light hair falling around her face like a curtain. Only Cailan stood. He felt the flush in his cheeks as he waited, but it became clear that if he waited on them, he'd be waiting forever. "Rise," he said, and his voice cracked a bit. "Teagan, it's _me_. You know how I feel about ceremony."

Teagan and Fergus stood first and everyone followed and everything went back to normal. "Consider, Cailan, that the display was as much for us as it was for you," Teagan pointed out. "We were told the king of Ferelden was dead; the nation's been in mourning, a Blight is on our doorstep, if not already forcing its way in; Loghain has declared himself regent. Everything's falling apart," he said, seeming to take no notice of the way Cailan's eyebrows climbed with each successive bit of news given. "And then the king returns. You have no idea what a relief this is for me. What it will mean for the people."

The tears in his eyes and the sincere tone in his voice touched Cailan, but it also made him queasy. Still, he forced a smile for his uncle. "That's not a lot to live up to, or anything," he said. _Especially when I led so many of them to their deaths._

Finally Teagan grasped his nephew in a tight hug that made Cailan wince. "You are your father's son through and through," he said to him. "If the people didn't see it before, they will have to see it now. Loghain will have to see it now."

At the mention of his father-in-law Cailan bristled. "Sounds like I've missed out on some important information."

Teagan released Cailan. "There is much to be said, but the time and place for saying it is not here." He was looking over Cailan's shoulder, and Cailan turned to see Isolde, Eamon's wife, striding into the hall with her usual imperious look plastered on her face.

"I heard commotion and thought the Wardens had returned," she said, completely bypassing Cailan and Fergus as if they didn't even exist. "Who are these… ruffians, Teagan?" she asked, finally turning to wrinkle her nose at the two men and the Chasind woman, and completely oblivious to Teagan's grin and the guards' uncomfortable looks. "This isn't the time for the village peasants to come begging," she added.

Fergus picked at the edge of his faded woven shirt, and was trying not to smile. "We're not from the village, fair lady," he said. "Times must be rough indeed if the Arlessa of Redcliffe doesn't notice the son of the Teyrn of Highever." Isolde paled and her mouth moved as if she were trying to grasp for words and none would come. "I fought the darkspawn in the Wilds, and unfortunately, this is what happens," he said, gesturing to his unkempt appearance. He needed a shave; his beard was growing in more thickly by the day, except for the one white line slicing up his jaw and cheek where a blade had cut him. And if Cailan's hair was shaggy because of a bad haircut, Fergus's was because it was in dire need of one.

"Isolde, the Wardens have not yet returned, but I think when they do, you'll find that Teyrn Fergus and his companions will be valuable allies. Wouldn't you agree, Your Majesty?" Teagan said, and Cailan could have punched him. Teagan had always enjoyed picking on him. He said it was because as the youngest child, he'd never had the luxury of a sibling and so Cailan would have to do.

Isolde's wide, honey-brown eyes trained on Cailan, trying to reconcile the image of the scruffy man with floppy yellow hair and thickening facial stubble with what she knew King Cailan, her nephew, to look like. "But… it can't be," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Teyrn Loghain's men came through on the return march to Denerim. They said you'd died. And then Eamon took sick…"

"Eamon's sick?" Cailan asked. While he was still relieved at having Teagan here and on his side, as far as politics went Eamon was a heavier hitter. His status as an Arl overruled Teagan's as a Bann. And Eamon was never afraid to pull rank with anyone: sometimes not even his king.

"That's why the Wardens went to the Circle," Teagan said. He rubbed his forehead, as if he'd developed a headache just in the few moments since Isolde had come marching in. Cailan couldn't blame him; she had that effect on people. He looked up and smiled, but it was too bright; forced. "Isolde, we should have the servants ready chambers for our guests," he said decisively. When she tried to protest he held up his hand. "All precautions have been taken, and I have no doubt Alistair and Fianna will return from the Circle Tower soon," he said.

At the mention of Fianna, Fergus straightened up. "You saw my sister? She's well?" he asked, not even trying to keep the eagerness from his voice.

"She's a Grey Warden now," Teagan said, "but she's taking it to heart. I dare say she grew up more in three weeks than in the preceding twenty-two years. But come, I'll show you to rooms. All of you," he added, gesturing to Viviane. She looked uncomfortable with the way attention fell on her, but she managed a stiff nod of thanks. "And then once the King and the Teyrn are settled we'll get to sorting everything out. And most of all, making a plan."


	9. No Pawn

_Chapter 9: No Pawn_

Redcliffe Castle

Whatever darkness had touched Redcliffe Castle had not touched the guestrooms that Isolde and Teagan showed to Cailan, Fergus, and Viviane. Viviane had taken Teagan's offer to come and go as she pleased to heart, and was now nowhere to be found; probably outside, if Cailan had to guess. He was in the room he'd often stayed in as a child whenever he and his father visited the Arling. Nothing had changed in the several years since he'd stayed here last. The same drapes hung in the windows, the same throws on the bed. And Cailan's suspicions were confirmed when a flustered servant girl ran in and grabbed the bolsters to take them out for a beating.

No one had been in here since the last time he'd stayed.

What was this, a shrine to him and his father?

He shook his head, which had begun to ache from the pressure building up between his temples. He still didn't know why Eamon was sick, or why Alistair and Fianna had needed to go to the Circle of Magi and then to Denerim; neither was a mage, and though Alistair had trained as a templar, his Grey Warden duties now superseded his Chantry upbringing. And come to think of it, he hadn't seen Connor at all, either. Connor would be about ten now, the same age Alistair was when Eamon had sent him to the Chantry…

Cailan didn't want to think about the past. There was enough pain in the present, and besides, what mattered was not what _had_ happened, but what _could_ happen now that he knew his brother and Fergus's sister were alive and actively combating the Blight.

A soft knock at the door startled him, and he turned to see Viviane standing in the doorway. "Isolde let me borrow her shears," she said. In spite of the chill in the air she seemed comfortable enough in her skimpy traditional clothing, and as he sat down at the vanity and let Viviane even out his ragged hair, he wondered how the Chasind managed to stay warm dressed so skimpily, yet living so far south, some on the very edges of the frozen wastelands. And then he realized that the Korcari Wilds were as much a part of Ferelden as was the Brecilian Forest or the Frostback Mountains, and he knew next to nothing about them. He sighed; there was so much about his kingdom he'd never thought about before.

"Are you in pain?" Viviane asked as she trimmed. "You sighed like that in the night when you were hurting."

"You listened to me sleep?" Cailan asked, feeling both embarrassed that this strange Chasind woman would spy on him, and grateful that she'd taken watch even though she'd surely been exhausted.

"Your lungs were damaged when the ogre crushed you," she said, her voice so casual it was as if such things happened every day. "Flemeth urged me to wake often and listen to be certain your lungs did not fill with fluid and drown you on dry land."

Cailan nodded his thanks, unable to find words because the image of drowning, without even being in water, was uncomfortable. Viviane picked up the silver comb on the vanity and ran it through Cailan's hair. He shook out the little prickly ends that had fallen and ran his hand over his head. It was still longish on the top and constantly ready to flop into his eyes, but it looked and felt much neater. And with his hair cleaned up, the prospect of a shave sounded good as well. "Thank you," he said to Viviane. "You hardly know me and yet you're looking out for my well-being on all fronts. Truly the Chasind have let go a gem from their people."

He meant it as a compliment, but Viviane just shrugged. "Maybe; or maybe we are all this way, and you've been otherwise content to consider us all barbarians of the Wilds," she said with an ironic smile.

Even just a month or two ago such a blatant observation would have made Cailan furious. Growing up he'd loved to read and to learn and had prided himself on being somewhat of a scholar. But that also meant he didn't like it when he was made aware of his ignorance. Now, as he looked at Viviane he realized he really hadn't ever seen a Chasind up close, let alone ever conversed with one. He knew there were pockets of nomadic Chasind that roamed the outskirts of the Bannorn around Denerim and sometimes came into the city to trade, but the tribes had always remained comfortably in the far south.

"Maybe I haven't known until now what I should consider," he told her truthfully.

To that, Viviane had no answer, and Cailan could have sworn her cheeks were pink under her carefully applied face paint.

Fergus had also shaved, but his dark hair was thick and unkempt, almost like an animal living atop his head, and Cailan told him so. But he kept pacing his room, gazing out the window that overlooked the courtyard as if he could will Fianna back to Redcliffe. "Teagan's had a meal prepared," Cailan said after another few moments of tense silence and pacing. "Ready for some real food?"

"I don't know if I have much of an appetite," Fergus said truthfully, but he followed Cailan anyway.

In the small, private family dining room Teagan waited for them. He'd had a spread of bread, cheeses, cold meats, and some fruit from Rainesfere's harvests laid out, and though Fergus had protested no appetite, even he could not resist. "And could you have a plate made and sent up to Viviane's room?" he asked a nearby servant. "Our Chasind companion. She was not comfortable joining us, but I'm sure she's hungry and would appreciate the thought," he added.

Though Cailan was starving, he found that eating so much so quickly disturbed his stomach, so he picked at small pieces of bread and cheese and sipped a weak spiced wine while Teagan filled him in on what had gone on in Redcliffe. "And Alistair, former templar initiate that he was, got it out of the mage that Loghain had paid him off to poison Eamon. Bloody Teyrn said he'd make things right with the Circle, whatever that means, if he did it." Teagan downed his stronger wine, and poured another cup.

"I still can't believe Connor's a mage," Cailan said. It was fitting. Eamon had been charged with bringing up Alistair and had, at age ten, shipped him off to the Chantry for templar training; now his own son was ten and would be shipped off to the Chantry's holding pen for mages. It was horrid to think, with Uncle Eamon deathly ill and all, but he couldn't help himself and after the last few days of feeling so uncertain about everything, it was nice to finally feel certain about something.

Talk turned to politics. Fergus naturally was curious about Highever. "Howe's allied himself with Loghain," Teagan said. "The two of them are thick as thieves."

Fergus swore and slammed his fist on the table. With his beard shaved it was easier to see the way his cheeks reddened, but also how gaunt he was. "And I suppose he's calling himself the Teyrn of Highever, now too," he said, and when Teagan nodded tentatively, Fergus pounded the table so hard he knocked over his goblet. The wine spread over the table like blood, soaking into the corner of Cailan's cloth napkin.

Cailan thought it best to change the subject, though he wasn't looking forward to hearing of Loghain anymore than Fergus had wanted to hear of Howe. "Isn't it dangerous for Fianna and Alistair to head to Denerim, considering what Loghain's saying about the Wardens?" he asked.

"They're not alone," Teagan said, which was a comfort to Cailan. "They go with two mages, a Qunari, and a bard," he said. He smiled at Cailan's dumbstruck expression. "I think the two of you will find that your siblings are both resourceful, as well as determined."

It appeared to surprise Fergus that Fianna could be resourceful, and after the stories Cailan had heard, and from the few times he'd met her, he understood his friend's reaction. Then again, difficult times forced people to aim for higher standards, rather than be complacent. He was living proof of that. He also hoped his path would cross with the Wardens' at some point, so he could congratulate Fianna on stunning Fergus to silence.

But he was less surprised at his brother's resourcefulness. Growing up a stable boy living in the hay loft, and then shipping off as the ward of the Chantry, had doubtlessly instilled a streak of creativity and determination in Alistair that Cailan almost envied. Cailan had always had anything he wanted, when he wanted it. He was denied next to nothing, and groomed to be the king: Ferelden's ultimate noble. He'd never really had to work at anything until now, and had found on the road that even coming up with a destination outside of the Wilds had posed a nasty challenge. He sighed; he supposed he was beyond lucky to have a second chance this way. But why did it have to be so _hard?_

And now Teagan was saying they needed to come up with a plan for moving forward. "Unfortunately, I cannot leave Redcliffe so long as Eamon is ill," he said, but what Cailan knew he left unsaid was that he didn't trust Isolde to run the Arling, and he tried not to smile. In his aunt's mind, "Arlessa" was a ceremonial title that simply meant her only job was to be the Arl's wife.

"Will he recover?" Cailan asked. His concern was as much about the political ramifications of things as it was about the guilt pricking at him over their last argument, and the amends yet to be made.

"Healers have been able to do nothing; the Circle even sent their best when they came to rid Connor of his possession," Teagan said. He stared into the candles, starting to burn low. "The Wardens went to Denerim to find Brother Genitivi; the only thing we think can save Eamon now are Andraste's sacred ashes."

Cailan's stomach ached as if he'd been crushed by the ogre all over again. The sacred ashes were little more than a mystical myth in the Chantry's more sensational lore. And if they truly existed, what hope was there that they'd actually be in Ferelden, and not somewhere else in the farther reaches of Thedas?

Cailan rose from his chair. "I think I need to go rest now," he said, rather than voice his concerns. He could see Teagan _wanted_ to believe, for Eamon's sake. He turned before Fergus or Teagan could ask him any questions and slowly made his way through the familiar halls to his room. Someone had already lit the fireplace, and the orange-gold flames drove away the late-autumn chill that tended to seep into Ferelden's drafty castles.

He lit the candle lamp at his bedside with a taper from the fire and then perused the collection of books on the shelves. When he was a boy he'd spent so much time wandering to the library, mostly when it was nearly bedtime. He would stall to avoid bedtime, but he also wanted to find something to read. He'd always been a voracious reader, something his father had said was Queen Rowan's touch in her son. So one visit, they'd come and Cailan had been ready to run to the library when, to his delight, he found that some of the library had been brought to him.

He smiled as he touched the frayed bindings of some of the children's story collections, and noted with approval that Redcliffe's copy of the _Adventures of the Black Fox_ had apparently been rebound. His delight was mixed with guilt, because that had probably been rather expensive. The more he truly saw of his country from outside the walls of the palace, the more he felt he didn't know about Ferelden or its people.

Not that Maric hadn't tried to teach him. Cailan spied a biography of King Maric the Savior, and curiosity made him pluck it from the shelf and return to the bed, as comfortable as he remembered it being; and infinitely more comfortable than the couple of nights he'd spent out on the road, sleeping on the ground and trying to avoid rocks and lumps and clods of earth underneath him.

Maric had occasionally mentioned his years leading the rebellion, when he was younger than Cailan was now. But it was clearly something he didn't like talking about, as if the memory hurt him the way a real weapon would. And whenever he spoke of those tumultuous times when Ferelden was in Orlesian hands, he looked sad. But then he would smile and say, "I'm glad you don't have to deal with this, son." And change the topic, as if he'd never spoken of the rebellion at all. And the older Cailan got, the less Maric wanted to talk about it, even if Cailan asked directly. It was as if explaining, or maybe defending his choices and actions was something he did not wish to inflict on his son, who stood to inherit a peaceful kingdom.

Cailan skimmed through some of the pages of the biography, trying to pretend the subject of the book was not, in fact his own father. He resented his father for avoiding the topic. There were so many things Cailan didn't know about being a proper king: how to fight a war, for one.

He dropped the book on the stone floor at his bedside with a soft thud. He flung back the covers and wriggled under them before blowing out the bedside candle. His room was dark save for the orange glow of the fire, sending out strange shadows on the walls and making Cailan recall the flaming arrow volleys of the darkspawn archers at Ostagar. He pulled the blankets more tightly around him, but the chill came from inside. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, all but _begged_ for it to come, but it wouldn't.

Viviane looked up when she heard the knock on her door, and without any ceremony flung it open. There stood the king, his gold hair flopping over his eyes, which had gray-purple blotches underneath them. "I hope I didn't wake you?" he said when she bid him enter.

"I thought the ogre crushed your belly, not your head," she told him, slightly cross. He hadn't in fact disturbed her, though it was very late. But it was the way he felt he needed to be so… _polite_ to her. Everyone here did. And it wasn't simple courtesy, either. They tiptoed around her as if she were fragile and a wrong move or incorrect word would make her snap. She should have expected this, since her people were not very well understood. She'd grown up knowing that people feared what they didn't understand.

As it was now, her fire still burned bright and merry, crackling on the hearth, and several candles were lit. She'd been poring over a stack of books on herbalism found in the library, as well as a few tomes of Ferelden history Fergus had pointed out to her. He'd been pleased that she could read, and not surprised, as she figured so many would be. "These may help you understand us and our ways better," he'd offered. "And maybe someday soon, you might tell me about you and your ways," he added before scurrying out of the room like a startled rabbit. All she could think was that his badly broken leg was healing well for him to move so quickly.

"Do you have anything to help me sleep?" the king asked, and when Viviane looked closer she noted that his eyes were bloodshot in his very pale face. Instead of answering she walked right up to him and rested her ear on his chest.

He stiffened and inhaled sharply, but that was good. She could hear his breathing, and it was clear; his heartbeat was also strong, if a bit quick. His fatigue was probably the result of the body expending energy to heal itself without Flemeth's constant magic assisting it. "Yes. I can give you some leaves to chew, but only a few." She held up her hand to keep him from protesting. "The more you rely on the herbs to help you sleep, the less sleep you will be able to get without them," she said. "And as we don't know what we're doing or where we're going yet, we don't know how long my stores will last. Wouldn't that be miserable?" she asked him. "On the Blight-infested roads, or chased by assassins who wish you and Fergus dead, and you're too tired because you haven't slept. And now you've wasted your second chance at life." She smiled, feeling some sort of strange pleasure at making King Cailan look or feel uncomfortable. She'd made up her mind that she was glad her people had been on good enough terms with the previous kings to just be left alone by them. She wasn't sure she cared for kings very much, now that she'd met one.

Cailan looked at the pair of glossy deep green leaves she held in her pale hand. His mouth was a grim line and his blue eyes were hard. "I'll take my chances for now," he said, plucking them from her grasp and stuffing them in his mouth. "Thank you," he said and as quickly as he'd come in, he was gone.

Viviane went back to reading about the Ferelden rebellion and Maric, the man who would be king, and who would eventually sire the infuriating man who bustled in and out like it was nothing. And she decided she didn't like kings at all.

Teagan did not force them to decide where to go or what to do right away, for which Cailan was exceedingly grateful. "You came back from the dead," Teagan said with a chuckle. "I think you can rest some."

Cailan tried to. Viviane's leaves had helped, but he still felt constantly tired, and like everything was an effort. While Fergus seemed to be recovering more quickly, and liked to go outside and walk the castle grounds, Cailan felt the dark corners of the castle's interior suited him better.

He sat in Eamon's study with a piece of vellum stretched out on the desk, scratching with a piece of charcoal. He marked the sides of the valley, Loghain's position, and the Tower of Ishal. He stared at it. He tried to make sense of it. On his rough diagram he sketched arrows representing the movement of the darkspawn forces, and small circles representing the Fereldan regiments' locations.

"He had to have seen it," he muttered to the empty study. "So how did things get so bollocks'd up?" He crumpled up the diagram of Ostagar and tossed it over his shoulder toward the fireplace, but it bounced off the mantle and rolled away from the hearth. He took out another sheet of vellum, which he folded in half to divide into columns. On one side he wrote his name, and on the other, Loghain. Then he began listing the nobility according to their ranks.

What he saw wasn't promising. Loghain was Teyrn of Gwaren; Bryce Cousland was Teyrn of Highever. The two were second only to the monarchy. But with Bryce dead and Howe calling himself Teyrn of Highever, as well as Arl of Amaranthine, Cailan didn't have much weight on his side. Even with Fergus alive, something drastic would have to happen to make Howe relinquish his claims.

"Anora," he sighed, running his hand over his hair. For once, when he closed his eyes he didn't see the dead with their vacant stares, but Anora's golden hair glowing in sunlight, and her sparkling, bright blue eyes. A lump rose in his throat and he swallowed around it. If the Ashes didn't work, he might never have to face Eamon again, but he would need to face Anora.

He did miss her, more than he wanted to admit. If he didn't miss her, he didn't have to feel guilty about the way they'd left one another. But as he looked at the lists he was drawing up, he felt lost. This was Anora's domain: the intrigue and political games had always excited her, the way the prospect and hope of battle excited him. They complemented one another that way, or would have if he'd actually had the opportunity to plan battles and strategies.

He got up and looked at the framed map of Ferelden. Thinking of Anora had led him to think of what to do next, because sitting in Redcliffe, waiting for the Wardens, wouldn't do much good at this point. They had to go somewhere that would be safe, and even defensible; with Loghain's eyes on Redcliffe and his seat of power in Denerim, neither of those options was feasible. Unfortunately, both were places Cailan had called home.

The west was closed off by the Frostbacks, but if they moved east they could come to Gwaren. It would be a delicious irony for Cailan to set up his new seat of power in the heart of Loghain's own Teyrnir. But something else poked at the back of his memory.

His laughter sliced through the air. Of course: the first outpost Maric and Loghain had secured during the rebellion to oust the usurper from the throne.

Fergus laughed too when Cailan told him this. "Our fathers would laugh if they saw us now," he said. A day outside in the brisk air had put some color back in his face, and he seemed much calmer. "I've been talking with Teagan," he said when Cailan made mention of it. "He told me about your list of nobles, but also that when he left Denerim a couple weeks ago he detoured through the Bannorn and began to rally support. We might not be as alone as we think. After all, look at Fianna and Alistair: if they could find support and traipse all over Ferelden, I'm sure we can do as much. If not better."

Cailan smiled. "You're still amazed by your sister, aren't you."

"She's saving the world. I think I'd be amazed by just about anyone," Fergus said. "But especially Fi, since she could barely save herself from a bad hangover," he added with a grin.

"Maybe you should be giving her a little more credit," Cailan suggested, and was met with a frown from Fergus. "She's had it just as rough as you," Cailan said. "Maybe you should stop being so amazed that she's saving the world and just being amazed she's alive."

Fergus's eyes widened a bit, and then he blinked. "Well. Way to put me in my place." He turned and walked away, leaving Cailan feeling bad, but not bad enough to go after him. He supposed he should be honest at some point and mention that the other Warden who happened to be alive happened to be his brother. But unlike Fianna, who'd grown up privileged like Fergus and now had to make a way for herself, Alistair had grown up with difficulties. Now, when he was a Warden and things should have been easier for him, was tasked with saving Ferelden.

Cailan added Alistair to the mental list of regrets he wanted to set right.

He considered heading to his room, but changed his mind and made his way out into the crisp Ferelden fall day. He squinted at the horizon, which was perpetually dark these days. The chill air flowed around him, bringing with it the scent of fish and fire, and he was grateful the Blight hadn't yet touched Redcliffe. He hoped it could hold off until Fianna and Alistair returned.

He made his way down to the practice yards, where he'd first met Alistair all those years ago. Now the dirt practice ring was empty. The uncomfortable thought had been building inside of him: if they were to head to Gwaren, or anywhere, really, he would have to pick up a sword again. His massive two-handed sword was probably long-lost at Ostagar, as was the sword his father had found in the Deep Roads two decades ago. Though he wasn't a sword-and-shield fighter, preferring the heft and reach of the greatsword, he'd taken his father's blade as some sort of charm; after all, it had helped Maric the Savior hack his way through legions of darkspawn then, so perhaps it would help Cailan now.

But Cailan was rapidly realizing that wishful thinking wouldn't help him reclaim what was his, nor save his country in its solemn hour. He looked over the racks of weapons in the armory. Most blades had been pilfered, and the ones left were in disrepair. The armor pieces were scattered, and he couldn't really find anything that matched. Probably all with the army he hadn't called for.

Cailan grabbed a blunt, nicked sword and hefted it. The grasp was alien to him, but the weight was good; he figured anything larger might prove to be too heavy. He found a light buckler that didn't feel too heavy, and headed to the ring. There were no dummies set up, and he figured the men of the castle had had enough of a workout fighting off the corpses and demons Teagan had told him about. He swept the blade in an arc over his head and jabbed, keeping his guard up with the buckler.

"Need some help?" Cailan looked up to see Teagan watching him, and his inborn vanity hoped he didn't look too ridiculous. He nodded and Teagan came in, bearing his own blade and buckler with his Rainesfere arms painted on. Without a word he lunged forward, forcing Cailan to block the blow with his own blade. The metal clanged out and echoed across the empty ring. Teagan disengaged his sword and swung again, this time a downward blow that Cailan had to take on his buckler. His arm went numb underneath the small shield, and he didn't have time to protest before Teagan came at him again.

It went like this for what felt like hours, but was really only a few minutes. Cailan found himself forced back, merely defending his position, and doing a pathetic job of it, at that. Sweat dripped down his face and soaked his hair, and when he inhaled his breath whistled into his lungs and never quite seemed to fill them. He managed to land a blow against Teagan's sword, but his uncle twisted his wrist, forcing Cailan to drop his own blade. Then he held the point of his sword to Cailan's throat. "Ready to yield?"

Cailan was too tired to be embarrassed, and dropped to one knee. He nodded, unable to find breath to answer. Teagan shoved his sword into its scabbard, and it clanged with a note of finality. When he looked up his uncle was not smiling. "Bad?"

"You'll need to train before you leave," Teagan said, wiping away sweat from his brow. "Time was you could take me down in a fraction of that time."

"In all fairness I was mostly dead," Cailan pointed out, cross at his own weakness.

"Which Loghain won't care about if he challenges you to a duel in a Landsmeet, as is his right," Teagan pointed out. "Cailan. You've had a bad time of things and I realize that, but you'll have to build up and get beyond it. You're the king."

"You think I don't know that," Cailan said, stabbing the dull sword into the dirt. "I've known that since my coronation and spent the last five years trying to be the king Ferelden deserves. My father told me about the Blight and I made an effort to fight it, because Ferelden deserves it."

"Then what you need to do is not let these forces move you like a pawn in a game," Teagan said. "Move yourself. Position yourself. And don't tell me you're trying. I think it's time we stop trying and just do." His face was grim. "Isolde tried, and it got us nowhere."

Cailan cocked his head at the mention of his aunt. "She hired that apostate. What did the Wardens do with him?"

"Left him in the dungeon for Eamon to deal with. Why?"

"This king is making a move."


	10. Return to Ostagar

_Chapter 10: Return to Ostagar_

Redcliffe Castle

It was a bad idea, but Cailan felt he needed to see this through; nothing ventured meant nothing gained. He was going to have to even his odds somehow. This was as good a way as any.

Loghain had told the mage he'd "make it right with the Circle," then left him to rot in the Redcliffe dungeon, at the mercy of the nobility. "I can make it right with the Crown," Cailan said, trying to ignore the dungeons around him. Dungeons were a reality for the nobles, and many in Denerim had their own subterranean cells, regardless of the fact that Fort Drakon stood tall, imposing, and effective in the city. He still didn't like that his own uncle and aunt had them, and worst of all, used them.

The mage, Jowan, looked about as good as Cailan figured he'd looked when he'd woken in Flemeth's hut. His beard was growing in scraggly and patchy, his face was pale, drawn, and bruised. The apprentice blue of his robes barely showed through the dirt and dried blood stains. He kept staring at Cailan, hardly able to speak for fear and want of water. Cailan sighed and ordered the guard next to him to get the mage out of the cell, and take him up to the castle proper.

"The Arlessa said he's to remain," the guard said, as nervous as if violating Isolde's directive would result in being whipped himself.

"And the King of Ferelden says you're to free him," Cailan said, and that settled the matter.

As they led the mage past Cailan, the man looked so broken he almost felt bad in spite of his role in nearly killing Eamon. "We're taking him to Gwaren with us," he told Teagan and Fergus. He thought a moment. "And if we can take a contingent of soldiers, that would be good, too," he said as an afterthought. "We'll be crossing the south, and if the darkspawn are moving north, then we'll want help." Before anyone could protest or ask any questions, he turned and left them standing in the study.

He headed up to the guestroom where Jowan the mage was staying under careful guard. The man had cleaned up, though he was still gaunt and bruised, and more than a little jumpy around Cailan. He was clothed in some old servant's clothing and sipping at a weak wine when Cailan entered. "You know who I am?" he asked the mage, who nodded, his brown eyes wide. "Good. Loghain had you do his dirty work and left you to rot. That deserves vengeance, wouldn't you say?"

Jowan cleared his throat. "Anything you decide for me is better than I deserve," he said, finally looking away. "They left me at the Arl's mercy, when he woke. But… I don't know if that will happen. I don't even know what the poison was. I was never much of an herbalist."

"What were you then?" Cailan asked. Once again, more he didn't know about. He'd assumed all mages knew about herbs, healing, and how to shoot fireballs.

Jowan's cracked lips curved into a smile. "Well, if you ask the Circle, I'm a blood mage."

The prospect of having a maleficar on his side was more enticing than playing by the rules. Cailan knew if he were to prevail, he would have to make his own rules. "The aggressor makes the rules," Maric had told him once, during one of their many talks about diplomacy and warfare. "In my time the Orlesians and the chevalier regiments made the rules. If the rebellion wanted to win, we had to start making _our_ own rules."

So if Cailan's rules meant taking on a maleficar? Game on, he decided.

He also did his best to recover from the humiliating defeat in the practice ring. Though Fergus was skeptical, he too realized Teagan was right and he should train as well. "It _would_ be a little embarrassing for the two most powerful men in Ferelden to be unable to lift their own swords," Fergus agreed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Their swords clanged, and both grunted with the stress of battle, but then decided to start looking through the armor and outfitting for their trip to Gwaren. It was clear to Cailan that the plate armor he was usually used to would be too bulky and hard to move quickly in, so he found a ragtag set of medium weight chainmail. It was rusted in places, but nothing that couldn't be repaired by the village blacksmith.

Within a few days they were ready to leave; but now that Cailan had a plan the idea of following through with it was terrifying. When he'd headed to Ostagar he'd known his enemy; the soulless darkspawn were simple. It was an easy matter of marching south, fighting, and returning to Denerim. He wouldn't have foreseen _this._

The sun rose, red in a gray-brown sky and quickly disappeared behind the low clouds of the Blight. Cailan looked out to the east, shielding his eyes from the direct sun and trying to quell his feelings of trepidation. He moved more easily in his newly repaired and shined mail and he flexed his hands in his gauntlets. Next to him, Fergus was similarly armored; finally, looking even more uncomfortable in an oversized mail shirt over his breeches and loose shirt, was Jowan. He had a sharp knife belted at his waist and they'd found his staff locked in the castle vault, and every so often he looked down at the knife with wary eyes. And with them, a dozen Redcliffe soldiers.

Teagan saw them off from the gates of the castle, a wistful gleam in his blue eyes. "Going with you would be much more enjoyable," he said with a grimace. "But Redcliffe needs leadership. And so does Ferelden, so go and may the Maker watch over you."

"And over you," Cailan said as they embraced roughly, and they set off into the sunrise.

Cailan and Fergus's places in the donkey-drawn cart was now taken up with supplies: food, clean water, weaponry. Cailan and Fergus were, like the rest of the soldiers, walking. Cailan just kept moving forward, aware that as the sun shifted, the miles were passing blank, blighted, and uneventful. Browned grass had been stamped flat by passing darkspawn feet; the muck underfoot was blackened and frozen; things grew colder as their road veered to the south, and the second day Cailan realized with a start that their route would take them straight through Ostagar.

But he didn't have much time to think about it before their forward scouts came running back, breathless and pale with news of the first enemies. "Darkspawn," Ser Kane said, gripping his sword hilt. "About a half dozen, possibly stragglers since the rest of the horde's been progressively moving north. Orders, Majesty?"

The last time everyone looked at him like this Cailan knew he was going to fail, and men and women had followed them to their deaths. He glanced over at Fergus, who shrugged. "Protect the goods, and watch Viviane." He tightened his grip on his sword. "To arms. We're fighting."

The few engagements he'd had with darkspawn before the main battle at Ostagar, he'd been horrified by how awful they truly were. But now he knew what he was facing. He drew his sword and joined the line with his small contingent of troops.

The first darkspawn to crest the hill was a large slobbering Hurlock, snarling and growling at them. A couple Genlocks followed. Their dark cries rang across the dead, dull landscape when they saw the soldiers. Cailan gritted his teeth and cleared his mind.

His blade connected with the first Hurlock, screeching against the rusting breastplate. The air filled with grunts and growls, clangs, bangs, and shouts. Cailan ducked to avoid a swinging sword, and spun around and hit the creature with his shield, right in its deformed face. The Hurlock staggered backward and he took advantage of the moment to drive the point of his sword into the creature's stomach. Black blood oozed out around the blade, and Cailan twisted it before yanking it back toward him and out of the Hurlock. The Hurlock stumbled back and fell, claws grasping at its bleeding abdomen.

The rest of the soldiers were making quick work of their enemies. Fergus swept around and beheaded a Genlock, while Ser Ryder clubbed another Genlock across the face with his spiked mace. It connected with a wet, meaty _thunk_ that made Cailan grateful he'd had very little for breakfast. The creature fell to its knees, and Ryder smashed his mace into its head once more before he kicked it over. Ryder swung his mace through the air a few times to clear off as much of the blood and skin and bone as he could while the other beasts were quickly dispatched. "Not bad for our first skirmish," he said with a toothy grin. He didn't look like he had more than twenty years on him, and had it not been for his skill with his mace, Cailan could have taken him for a raw recruit.

"Perhaps then it is to our advantage that we're moving along so far south," Viviane mentioned, approaching Cailan and hugging her cloak around her. "The lands are blighted, but the horde has moved on, which should mask our presence from any foes in the north."

Cailan looked in that direction and tried to quell his thoughts of the Bannorns and Arlings that would soon face this darkness poisoning their lands and killing their people. There was a strong part of his spirit that begged him to give the command to turn north and engage the foe.

"You cannot hope to triumph in that way," Viviane said in a soft voice, looking up at him. The sharp, chill wind stung at his cheeks like tiny knives; her own cheeks were red with the cold and it was evident she was trying to keep her teeth from chattering. "And you tried to engage the horde with a thousand times more men, in a more strategically defensible location, and were still routed," she pointed out. "Your people need you alive."

"And I have a second chance at that," he said, as if cued.

Viviane smiled and her teeth did chatter then; she wiped the expression away and appeared embarrassed. "You learn," she said simply, before turning her back on him and climbing back into her seat on the cart.

Night fell, darker than any Cailan ever remembered on the road. The sky was moonless, and the thick clouds of Blight corruption blocked out the stars. The campfire did little to brighten their campsite; if anything, it made it feel as if the darkness were encroaching even more. Sleep seemed a thing to be wished for and not experienced, but it was nothing new for Cailan in these past few strange weeks. What was new was how the soldiers treated him: like a man, not as a king. They talked to him, not at him. All in all, Cailan thought it was funny how the Blight was bringing people together.

The next day Ser Ryder took the reins to the cart so Viviane could scout ahead. She moved through the lands as if she were part of them, and her hide clothes and cloak, and long, pale hair, blended into the landscape. The troop kept moving to the southeast, and Viviane insisted she'd meet up with them again soon. "She's taking the opportunity to ditch us," Ryder said, driving the cart up beside Cailan. "Or to bring more barbarians swooping down on us," piped up Ser Percy on the other side.

"She saved my life," Fergus said, turning to flash a disgusted look at them. "And you'll not speak ill of anyone who does that, whether it's a Fereldan born and bred, a Chasind woman, or even a bloody maleficar." A few paces behind Cailan, Jowan masked a snort as a sneeze. "No pun intended," Fergus added, mistaking the reason for Jowan's derisive laughter. Fergus was still uncertain about having a mage along, and Cailan wasn't sure that revealing blood magic was the best idea right now. Jowan had promised to keep his use of the forbidden school minimal, and only use it when absolutely necessary.

Viviane returned later that day, bracken clinging to her long hair and her face smudged with dirt. "Another group of stragglers, but larger than the last; they at least double our numbers," she said, nodding thanks when Fergus passed her a mug of tea and flashed the Redcliffe knights a stare that dared them to say anything about it. "Their lookouts are sharp of sight and keen of hearing."

"Are any of you talented with archery?" Jowan's timid voice startled the men and they all turned to the gaunt mage.

In breeches, tunic, cloak and mail shirt, Jowan hardly looked a mage; even his staff had more the look of a walking stick, and at first the dozen soldiers underestimated his plan. But when he stood on the crest overlooking the shallow valley in which a camp of nearly four dozen darkspawn was set, the clouds darkened over them. The wind picked up, carrying a mournful howl through the air and slicing down at the enemy with a painful chill. His lips moved though he said nothing aloud, doing what he could to avoid detection. He held his staff aloft; sweat ran down his face, belying the difficulty he was having summoning and channeling his power.

The first flakes of snow spun down lazily, and Cailan would have missed it had not Viviane gasped and thrown up the hood of her cloak so suddenly. He smiled, but then the flakes began to fall in earnest. Jowan's jaw was clenched and his lips pressed into a thin line as he channeled the blizzard at the enemy camp, and then he gave Cailan a terse nod.

It was like reliving his worst nightmare, just on a much smaller scale. The snow obscured the enemies' vision and confused them enough for Cailan to drop his hand, the signal for the handful of archers to let loose their arrows. The air filled with flying arrows and the inhuman grunts of the darkspawn enemy. The archers fitted another round of arrows and let them fly. By this point Jowan had collapsed and the snowstorm was petering out along with his magic. "Viviane, get him off the field," Cailan ordered. He loosened his sword in its scabbard. "The rest of you, let's show these fiends they're not welcome in Ferelden!"

* * *

The South Road

"You're certain you want to go back through Ostagar," Fergus said. They trailed their company the next day, just miles out from the ruins that marked the day so much had changed for them. "You don't need to; it won't prove anything."

Cailan couldn't explain to Fergus exactly why he felt the need to go back, and told him as much. "I think I need to see it," he said, frustrated that he wasn't expressing himself as clearly as he used to. "And learn from it," he added, recalling Vivane's earlier comment about his capacity to learn. "Besides, maybe we can salvage some supplies. The Circle was there; maybe there's some lyrium for Jowan. And we can see what weaponry was left."

But what he couldn't tell Fergus was that he needed to find his personal effects. He'd kept his trunk locked and closely guarded while in camp, and the thought of it being violated by darkspawn, or worse, Loghain's troops, filled him with disgust. But the feeling was also mixed with fear, for what secrets he kept stashed away.

They reached the western edge of the ruin as the sky began to grow dim. Here, snow covered the ground in a thick blanket that was miraculously untouched by the tramp of darkspawn feet; it was as if the dirtiness of the taint ended with the spread of this white blanket. Even crunching into the snow Cailan felt the air he breathed was cleaner, like something here emanated from within and kept the Blight itself at bay.

The soldiers began to set camp at the edge of the ruins, shrugging and saying it was as good a place as any to set up. "They are afraid," Viviane whispered, appearing at his elbow like a ghost. "This ground has been hallowed with the blood of many warriors, and yet the dead do not rest. They haunt this place." Her voice dropped to a murmur and her words became garbled to Cailan's ears as she dissolved into her native language.

"I think we should move in further," Cailan said to Fergus. "Scout out with what daylight we have left. We might find a better campsite," he said when Fergus looked doubtful.

After a moment Fergus sighed. He didn't have the same connections to Ostagar as Cailan did, and as such, could find no logical reason to deny Cailan. "Do you regret it yet?" he asked when they'd moved away from the main camp.

"Regret what?" Cailan asked. "Everything? Pretty much."

"Coming back," Fergus said, looking around.

"Not yet," Cailan answered. Their boots crunched through the snow and the clear air was a relief after the days spent slogging through the blighted south of Ferelden. For the first time since waking up, Cailan felt his mind clear and felt like he could think, even though he was walking the grounds where this nightmare had all begun. "Over there," he said suddenly, pointing to an orange glow across the ruin. "We're not alone."

Fergus drew his weapon and Cailan followed suit as they took slow, purposeful strides toward the glow. The closer they got they could see it was a fire, with the shadows of two people sitting near it. Cailan tightened his grip on his sword; they could be more straggling darkspawn. Took another step. Refused to let the element of surprise take him ever again. Moved closer, held his sword at the ready.

"Drop your weapons," said a female voice behind him, and he felt the cold steel of a dagger against the back of his neck. "Got 'em," she called to her companion, who rose, and Cailan could see the second person was really a suit of familiar armor propped up like a body. _His_ armor!

He wheeled around and snatched at the girl's arm, but she was light and quick and easily dodged him. She held two daggers at the ready, all but daring him to rush her. Fergus was fighting with her friend, a well-built and very well-trained fighter. The two men were evenly matched, leaving Cailan to fight off the human equivalent of a very annoying stinging fly.

In the flickering firelight it was hard to get a good look at her, but she had short dark hair that swung at her jaw line, and her moves were those of back alley fighting rogues; this struck him as odd compared to her companion, who moved with the precision of a trained knight.

She kicked snow up in his face and lunged at him with her daggers, sweeping them across where his abdomen would have been if he hadn't jumped back, blinking the stinging cold out of his eyes. Cailan found himself right against a tree and she closed in. At the last moment he dropped his sword and shield and spun around the trunk, reaching for her and grasping the back of her leather armor. He slammed her face-first against the trunk. "Let's try doing this the right way," he said, wresting one blade from her hand. "Drop the other."

"Let her go."

The voice was sonorous, and even a bit familiar. Also familiar, and annoying, was the feeling of steel against him, and Cailan turned around, one hand still keeping the girl pinned against the tree.

He stared into the face of a ghost. In the shadows of sunset and the campfire all he made out were the lines and angles of the cheeks; the strong jaw, the straight nose; the face of his father. His hand dropped, and the girl quickly gathered up her blade. "Alistair," she said. "If you're not going to dispatch him, let him go and be done with it."

Alistair. For years Cailan had done all he could to learn about his half-brother. But he could count on one hand the few times they'd been face to face like this. He'd thought their chances gone when he'd sent his brother off to the Tower of Ishal, resting easily in the knowledge he'd kept him safe.

"You," he breathed at last. Alistair dropped his blade some and a hint of a smile softened his stern face. "Alistair. Is it you?"

Alistair's smile grew, but he seemed uncomfortable. "Yes, that's generally what I respond to," he said.

"Which means she's…" Cailan forgot about the fight, forgot about the Blight and the civil war and having almost died. "FERGUS!" he bellowed, his voice resounding off the cold ruins.

"Fergus?" the girl asked. "Fergus? Where?" Tree branches rustled and the snow crunched and then she shrieked. Fergus grunted and laughed more loudly than Cailan had ever heard.

Cailan and Alistair stood a moment, staring at one another in the shadows before Alistair turned away and headed toward the fire, leaving Cailan no choice but to follow. He hung back a few paces, mindful of his brother's straight back and purposeful stride, and the way his hand rested comfortably on the hilt of his sheathed sword. This wasn't the boyish Warden of a month and a half ago.

"Why did you come back here?" he finally asked Alistair, as the younger man took a seat on the snowy ground by the fire. Cailan stood, arms crossed over his chest and not sure if he was accusing Alistair, or truly curious.

"Same reason as you?" Alistair asked. "Though I thought you were dead," he added, shaking his head and staring up at his older brother.

"Rumors of my death are highly exaggerated," Cailan said with a shrug.

At that moment Fergus and Fianna joined them. Cailan remembered Fianna from Ostagar, a serious Warden recruit who'd lost everything except her life. The person before them now sparkled like sun on the new fallen snow, even in the growing darkness. She bounced on the balls of her feet, staring up at her brother with what could only be described as adoration. "Alistair. This is my older brother, Fergus. He'll be the Teyrn of Highever, now."

Alistair smiled at Fianna, a different smile than what he'd given to Cailan. It was warmer and more comfortable. "But you were so looking forward to being Teyrna," he said with a wide grin. He shielded his face from the plume of snow that she kicked up at him, and his laugh filled the little clearing. Alistair rose and held out one hand to Fergus, resting the other on Fianna's shoulder, and neither Cailan nor Fergus missed the way she leaned into his touch. "It's a pleasure, your Grace," Alistair said, bowing his head a bit while it was Fianna's turn to smile at his formality. "Your sister spoke very highly of you at Ostagar, and when we spoke along the road."

Fergus raised an eyebrow. "Fianna? Are you certain we're discussing the same young lady?" he asked, trying unsuccessfully to mask a smile.

But she'd gone quickly serious again. Alistair adjusted the thick green cloak about her shoulders and she nodded her thanks. "You probably aren't discussing the same girl," she said. She looked up at her brother. "I've seen a lot in the last weeks, Fergus. I've seen horrible creatures and even worse injustices. I've looked people in the eye and left them to die." She looked away, and though she worked to keep her voice steady, it was evident that it was a strain. "I think you'll be surprised by what I've become. The Blight…does something to a person," she said.

Cailan watched the play of shadows on her face and the way Alistair rested his hands on her shoulders as if he alone could hold her up. And Fianna, for all she was a fearsome fighter and Teyrn's daughter, allowed him to support her. A pang gnawed at him, and he realized he really missed that about Anora. Those moments when she was vulnerable and just plain Anora. Not the queen, but his wife. And seeing the way Fianna and Alistair just melted together, like two halves of one whole greater than the sum of its parts, Cailan envied his younger brother.

"We have about a dozen troops, a Chasind girl, and a mage with us at another camp not far off," Cailan said at last, breaking the contemplative silence that had descended. His voice sounded odd over the crackling of the fire and though he tried to sound authoritative, he didn't quite hear it in his voice. He sounded tentative, and the instinctual way he looked to Alistair for affirmation stirred up something odd within him.

"You and I can collect them," Alistair offered. "Give the two Couslands some time to get caught up," he added with a nod to Fergus.

And that was how Cailan wound up traipsing back across the snowy fields under a waxing moon with his brother at his side. Not the king and his bastard half-brother; not even two soldiers of Ferelden. Just two brothers. Alistair told him of his quest so far. They'd managed to invoke the Grey Warden treaties with the Dalish Elves and the Circle mages. "They're honoring the treaties because they must," he explained. "But if we could unite them, as well as any soldiers the Bannorn and rebelling Arlings can offer, under your banner, we could be a force neither Loghain nor the darkspawn could ignore," he said.

"You have it in for Loghain as well?" Cailan asked.

Alistair paused to look over the snowy ruins; under the moonlight they looked sad, with no hint of the majesty they displayed in the sun. "He effectively killed all of Ferelden's Grey Wardens," he said. "And he left his king and my… brother, to die."

"Then we may have to toss a coin when we meet up with him again," Cailan said. "To determine which of us gets to execute him."

Next to him, Alistair smiled, but his golden-brown eyes were hard. "You should know he's accusing the Wardens of treason. He says Duncan lured you out onto the front lines, knowing it would likely mean your death, and that those fighting with you did nothing to stop it." He paused to glance over at Cailan, and when he did, his face had softened. "I told you to let me fight on the front lines. I could have tried to save you."

"And you may have died yourself," Cailan said, a bit too sharply, but his rage at Loghain burned inside of him. "I knew what I was doing when I went to the front." It was a simple statement and lacked any tone of accusation. And he wasn't trying to convince Alistair or himself. He had always believed that fighting the Blight on the front lines was his place. "Loghain knew what he was _supposed_ to do, and then willingly turned aside from the duty he'd been ordered to. _That_ is treason, and I will see him executed for it," he said vehemently, his face burning with anger and making the cold feel like hundreds of tiny pins pricking his cheeks.

* * *

"I'd heard you were alive, but it seemed too much to hope for after everything else I'd seen," Fergus said once Cailan and Alistair were gone. It was still strange to him that Cailan, who'd been his friend for so long, as well as his king, had a younger brother. Of course, as a noble he understood the reasons. But it didn't make it any easier to accept.

"I had no hope for you, if we're being honest, here," Fianna said, tucking her dark auburn hair behind her ears. She looked away, blinking rapidly so Fergus would not see the tears glimmering there in the firelight. "I wondered why I even survived Howe's attack, and then why I was the only one to survive the Joining ritual; why I was the last Cousland alive. If not for Alistair, I would be completely alone." She looked back at him, a curiosity and grimness in her eyes he'd never thought he'd see. Fianna had never _done_ serious. "But… you're alive. It's more than I'd ever hoped for." Her voice caught in her throat and then she flung herself at Fergus.

He was knocked back against a snow bank, the cold soaking into him from the back while the warmth from Fianna's arms soaked into his front. Her shoulders shook and there were strange muffled sounds coming from her and it was all very awkward, since she'd never been very emotional, either; his younger sister had always been a smiling enigma. But she was alive, solid against him, and not an abstract rumor.

"Cailan told me about Howe's attack. It's true?" Fergus finally asked when Fianna sat back, rubbing her swollen red eyes. She nodded and her lip trembled anew. Some of his elation at having found her alive dissipated, and a weighty sadness made him almost dizzy. She tried to explain to him in a halting voice what she'd seen but at last shook her head and turned to face the fire, pulling her knees to her chest and hugging them there. "I didn't realize Cailan had a brother," he ventured after minutes of silence broken only by the pop and crackle of burning logs.

"Half brother," Fianna said. "The Arl of Redcliffe raised him until he was ten and then sent him off to the Chantry to train as a templar." She did smile a bit at this. "The first time we met he was bringing a message to the mages from one of the Revered Mothers in camp. We have a couple mages with us now," she said, which piqued Fergus's interest. "They love to tease him. And he's such a good sport." Her smile grew, as if discussing Alistair pushed away the bad memories the way a candle flame pushed away darkness.

"I know that look," Fergus said with a knowing grin, and though he couldn't see well in the shadows, he knew Fianna was blushing. "You used to get it when some noble brought his handsome son around."

"Fergus Cousland you take that back," Fianna demanded, picking up handfuls of snow and packing them into a ball that she weighed in her hand while glaring at her older brother. Fergus just laughed, and his laugh grew even louder when Fianna hit him in the chest with the snowball.

They were still laughing when Cailan and Alistair returned with the rest of the party, and the laughter and peaceful conversation carried on into the night.

For Cailan, listening to the easy camaraderie around the fire, here where everything had gone so horribly wrong, it was as if some of the wound had started to heal.


	11. Conflicts of Interest

_Chapter 11: Conflicts of Interest_

Denerim

"Reports from the Bannorn are… not good, Your Grace." Teyrn Rendon Howe dared to look up at the craggy face of Regent Loghain, who sat on the throne with one hand pressed to the bridge of his nose and his eyes closed. "The darkspawn are moving up from the south and refugees are waiting outside the city gates." He cleared his throat and shuffled back a few steps, out of reach of Loghain's hands. Or sword. "The people demand action, my lord."

Loghain looked up and there was something… old and tired about him. Always he'd been an immutable rock of a man, as impressively solid as the Frostback Mountains themselves. "We must force the Bannorn to provide soldiers."

"And if they refuse?" Howe's voice was as thin and uncertain as he was.

"Enough!" Both men looked up as Anora strode into the room. She'd stood out in the hall long, listening to Howe giving his pithy excuse for reports to her father. But listening to them plan a civil war was more than she could bear. "Should we not be fighting the darkspawn instead of one another?" she asked, looking between her father and Howe. She fixed her eyes on her father and stood straight, meeting his eye, as she'd learned to do early on.

Loghain shook his head, and Anora could have sworn there was a sadly amused smile just touching his lips. "Anora, the nobility must first be brought into line and then the darkspawn can be defeated. This is no true Blight," he added as a casual afterthought, brow creased. "Only Cailan's vanity demanded it be so."

Anora had always prided herself on her ability to remain calm and controlled even in the most devastating of circumstances. She hadn't even shed one tear in front of one person, including Erlina, when she'd learned of Cailan's death. The day was still fresh in her mind, and the gaping wound in her heart was nowhere close to healing. Perhaps because offhand comments like these from her own father kept tearing at it.

"Beg pardon," Rendon Howe said, clearing his throat and glancing at Anora. "Blight or no, we may not have the manpower to fight the darkspawn soon."

Anora swallowed and took a deep breath to calm herself. She was the Queen of Ferelden and would not be so easily brushed aside, nor stand quietly while her father, a loyal subject of the crown, openly criticized the dead king. "Cailan approached the Orlesians for support, did he not?" she asked, her own icy blue eyes meeting her father's; she took a small dose of satisfaction in the way he flinched.

"Never!" Loghain nearly leaped out of his chair, and while Rendon stumbled back, Anora stood her ground. "Maric and I drove those bastards out, and I will _not_ roll out the welcome for them _now_!"

Anora stepped forward. "We need help, father." Her cheeks flamed and her heart thudded. She clenched her hands tightly; they shook like a twanged bowstring. "We cannot deal with this crisis alone!"

"Ferelden _will_ stand on its own!" He rose to his feet and stamped one foot as if he could will the Blight and the darkspawn away simply because he wanted it. "I will lead us through, Anora. You must have faith in me."

The heat turned to ice and Anora blinked, uncertain that she had heard her father correctly. "Father. I am the Queen of Ferelden. The people look to you as a hero, but they look to me as a leader, and I must think of my people." They locked eyes for an eternal moment, unsaid words floating in the air. Loghain would not look away, and finally Anora reached into the air and asked what she'd wondered all along. "Did you kill Cailan?"

The question hung between father and daughter. And though the implications of it were horrible, Loghain did not seem at all surprised by the question. As the moments slid by Anora felt her heart race faster with anticipation of her father's answer.

At last Loghain settled back onto the throne and when he looked up at Anora again, his expression was almost sad. When he spoke next he looked away, as if meeting her eyes was too much for him. "Cailan's death was his own doing."

Every control mechanism Anora had set up in order to present herself as the cool, collected queen threatened to snap right there, but she could not give her father or Rendon Howe the satisfaction of dissolving into emotional chaos on the spot. To do so would give them every excuse to undermine her, perhaps declare her unfit to rule. That her father had declared himself regent, while she was perfectly fit to rule and had been doing so for the last five years, had been insulting enough. But the admission that he'd let the king die… let his own son-in-law die, was too much for her to take.

Try as she might she could come up with no words. She shook her head in disbelief and backed away before throwing her hands in the air in frustration and storming out. Leaving Loghain sitting on her husband's throne.

Anora hardly realized she was running, or crying, until she was forced to stop and gasp for air that barely made it past the hitching in her lungs. She leaned on the window embrasure, almost doubled over. There was a stitch in her side and a hole where her heart should have been. There was the feeling of being so empty she could collapse, and yet so full she thought she'd burst.

She glanced around and was thankful she'd made it to a dingy back hallway off the servants' quarters. She leaned against the stone wall and slid down to sit on the floor, paying no heed to her gown. Not for the first time did she wish she'd been born a male, so she could rule in her own right rather than as a pretty figurehead parading at her husband's side, and now being asked to cower in her father's shadow. If she'd been the son her father had always wanted, and not the daughter he'd gotten, she would be the one on the throne calling the shots.

Why couldn't she order him to stand down? _Wait. I did, by reminding him I'm the queen,_ she thought. So why wouldn't he listen to her? Though he was her father, she outranked him and it was his duty to listen to her; nor did he have any right to step in as her regent. Suddenly she realized that this was how Cailan must have felt in those first days… then weeks… then months and years after his coronation. Anger replaced sadness; every muscle felt as taut as a bow ready to fire. She had to do something. Anything. Go somewhere, but would she be able to get out of the palace, let alone Denerim, with all that was afoot?

"My lady?" said a tentative voice, and Anora winced. While she didn't make a habit of being visibly emotional, she could handle any servant seeing her like this and brush it off with grace, a smile, and a sovereign for silence. But not Aubrey. The red-haired elf that had been the center of so many arguments between Anora and her husband now stood over her, and though her beige dress was drab and her red curls escaping from her bun, Anora was conscious of the fact she seemed so much more imperious.

"I'm sure you're enjoying this," Anora said, hardly bothering to stand on ceremony. What was one more embarrassment today?

"Hardly, my lady," Aubrey said. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Whatever you may think of me, I have nothing but respect for you," she said.

Anora had been expecting gloating. Maybe a little dance of joy at seeing the queen defeated. Not… grace, and certainly not a confession of respect. "Sit down," she said with a sigh, patting the stone floor next to her. When Aubrey didn't move, she looked up. The girl's face was frightened, and her eyes darted to and fro. "If anyone sees, they won't say anything. I'm the queen, and I've ordered you to sit with me," she said with a strange grin, finding it ironic that just weeks ago she was all but physically removing Aubrey from her sight.

Aubrey slid down and hugged her knees to her chest, occasionally glancing at Anora. The rest of the castle was too far away for them to hear anything, and for a time both women just sat in the silence of their own thoughts. "Did my husband ever talk to you?" Anora asked suddenly. She'd spent the last weeks thinking about Cailan: who he really was, what was really behind those blue eyes and sunny smile, and most of all, what she'd never quite seen simply because she'd been unwilling to look.

Aubrey glanced around and finally looked at Anora full-on with her stunning green eyes. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but is this some sort of trick question? If I answer, will your guards come out and take me to be hanged as an example in the square?"

Though her first instinct was to feel offended, from a political standpoint Anora saw the validity of the question. Servants like Aubrey walked a fine line of being favored and being found at fault, and if they were going to converse as simply two women, they would have to dispatch with suspicion. "No. No tricks. I… miss my husband and find I can't talk about him with anyone around here. Anyone who would appreciate him," she added. And that stung, because it drove home the knowledge that through their five years of marriage, and even through the long betrothal before that, she hadn't appreciated him the way he deserved.

Aubrey stared at the wall ahead of them, tugging on a lock of red hair. "Yes," she said at last. "He talked to me." The admission didn't surprise Anora, who waited for Aubrey to continue. "Just about little things," she said. "When he was frustrated or just needed to get something off his chest."

_Times I should have been there to listen to him,_ Anora thought with a fresh pang. More than once she could recall Cailan standing in the doorway, a goofy smile on his face that did not quite meet his blue eyes. His long fingers would tap the doorframe and she just looked up, smiled and nodded in brusque greeting, before she went back about her business, hoping he'd go away. Usually he did and she'd feel relieved, quickly followed by feeling jealous when Erlina slipped her the news he'd gone to a serving girl. She swallowed her tears, which was easy, and her pride, which was infinitely harder. "I… I am glad he had someone who would listen to him."

Aubrey shrugged one shoulder. "I honestly never wished to replace you, my lady," she said. "I know my place." She looked down and fiddled with her hair again. "And he gave me things, things that helped me help my family. My mum died, my da likes his drink, and my younger brother is simple. Sweet, but simple, and has a hard time finding any work in the Alienage." She paused and when she spoke again her voice was choked. "It was as much about what I could get from him."

"You are a poor liar," Anora said, finally looking over at the elf. Aubrey shook her head, but she couldn't keep the flush out of her cheeks or the tears out of her eyes. Anora tried to see beyond the exotic pointed ears, long red hair, and stunning green eyes. "I often criticized Cailan's kindness," she said. "I also thought him too trusting, and thus unfocused on what it meant to lead his people as their king." Realization bred regret, and the pain Anora felt was beyond measure. "I see now that he knew more than I ever did. I just wish I'd seen it sooner."

The sunlight slanted through the window above them, pale, reminding them that autumn was getting on and winter was on the way. Anora smoothed her skirts in her lap and cleared her throat. "Aubrey… I know we are only here because of a difficult and awkward situation. But I think we may be able to help one another."

"My lady?"

"I need to leave the city," Anora said. It was clearer than ever that she needed to get beyond Denerim's walls. "Unfortunately I do not see my father reacting very kindly to that. He refuses to let me rule in my own stead, which is my right, but I lack the power to depose him simply _because_ he is my father. And his reputation as the Hero of River Dane intimidates my guards… who are overseen by Ser Cauthrien, his own personal lieutenant." Anora's voice grew grim as she realized just how difficult her situation had become.

"What do you wish of me, my lady?" Aubrey asked, her voice guarded, eyes still narrow.

"Can you get to Gwaren?" Anora asked. Somehow the thought of the southern Teyrnir, her childhood home, called to her. It made her desperate for that simpler time of less than a decade ago. When Cailan was still alive. When Maric still ruled, and civil war didn't threaten to tear Ferelden asunder. "There are troops stationed there, and Gwaren is remote enough that they may not have heard of what's going on here yet." It was a desperate ploy, but these were desperate times. Aubrey still regarded her with suspicion, and Anora would have to rely on more than their bond over Cailan. "I can see to it that your family is provided for," she said. "And I will provide you with the documentation to take ship out of Denerim's harbor as soon as possible." Anora had always been good with documents, and while she would never use her skills to undermine Ferelden, she was well-practiced in the art of creating forgeries. Already her head was spinning with ideas of how to create a false identity for Aubrey to smuggle herself out of the city.

Aubrey was chewing on her bottom lip, her own mind at work. "I want to see Nolan and my da before I go, and want to see how they'll be taken care of first," she said. "I took this job in the palace when I was young because of them. I won't abandon them, even though it is the queen asking me." Her voice shook, as if striking a bargain with Anora frightened her deeply.

But Anora didn't blame her, and was so desperate herself that she would have agreed to nearly anything Aubrey asked of her. "It will be done." She clambered to her feet, feeling stiff, but much better now that her plan was more than a mere fancy. She smoothed her skirts and hoped her eyes were no longer red and puffy; she'd hate to explain to Erlina why she'd been crying and had not come to her faithful maid. Erlina. She'd always thought the way the elf dogged her steps had been blind servant's devotion, but from her discussion with Aubrey, she was learning the servants had their own webs of intrigue and guile that were just as dangerous as any noble's. "Wait in the alcove across from the royal bath chamber this evening," she said after a moment's thought. "I shall have documentation stating your brother is to become a page in the palace, and in consideration of his condition your father is to accompany him."

"And then I will go to Gwaren," Aubrey said, and Anora nodded. "Thank you, my lady."

"Whatever for?" Anora asked. If anything, _she_ should have been thanking Aubrey for agreeing to something so desperate and dangerous.

"For helping my family."

"And thank you for helping me. And my husband's memory," Anora said, and took off before she began crying again, leaving Aubrey still sitting on the floor wondering what in the name of all that was holy she had just agreed to.

"Clumsy wench!" Anora snapped, an icy fire in her pale blue eyes.

"My apologies, your Majesty," Aubrey mumbled, on her hands and knees picking up the things Anora had dropped. Her shaking hands fumbled with the silver-backed brush and comb, the fluffy towel, and more importantly, the carefully folded documents that had been inside the towel. She handed the pile up to Anora, who just snatched the brush and comb.

"Keep the towel," she said. "Now that it's been on the floor it's of no use to me. I'll just have to have Erlina get me another. Perhaps you can learn some competence from my personal maid," she added as she passed Aubrey. "And elf," she snapped, making Aubrey look up and meet her eyes. "Watch where you're going."

Neither woman gave the smile she wanted to give at Anora's veiled words, but they felt it.

Aubrey knelt on the floor a moment longer, then rose. She dropped the towel in the soiled laundry basket outside the bathing chamber door, and slipped the papers in the pocket of her gown. Later that night, stealing home from the castle felt more dangerous than ever. Especially when she found the Alienage closed.

"But I live here," she protested to the guard in royal livery, her ears burning and the letters threatening to leap out of her pockets and into his suspicious hands. "I serve in the palace and return to my home on the weekends for my leave."

"Alienage is closed, no exceptions," he said in a gruff voice. "Though if you were to make it worth my while…" His grin was lecherous, and Aubrey had seen it all too often. She backed away. He advanced, beefy hands fumbling with his belt even as his eyes feasted on her, bedraggled though she was.

_Da. Nolan. Forgive me,_ she thought as she turned and ran.

Ostagar, Southern Ferelden

"It looks better on you anyway." It was true; Alistair had trained hard as a templar, and more recently as a Grey Warden, and the golden plate armor hugged his frame in a way it had never done for Cailan, who always felt he was swimming in it. "And keep our father's sword," he added. "The more claim to the throne you can show, the better."

"But you're alive now. I don't have to claim the throne," Alistair said, fidgeting. Fianna nudged him and gave him a glare that could have frozen water on the hottest summer day. She was feisty, Cailan would give her that, and perhaps just what Alistair needed.

"No one else knows that," Cailan said. "Just the group of us and Teagan."

"And Isolde," Fergus reminded him, but Cailan just shrugged. He didn't feel like telling Fergus the truth just yet, that he'd let Jowan cast a memory spell to muddle Isolde's thoughts of the week they'd spent recuperating in Redcliffe. Yes, it had been blood magic. And yes, Cailan had ordered it. Isolde had never been able to keep a secret, and most court gossip could be traced back to her hand stirring the pot.

"You keep up the ruse," he ordered Alistair. "Your presence will keep Loghain distracted while we make our way to Gwaren."

"If you intend to make it into Gwaren, you might want to reconsider your look," Fianna said, her gaze sweeping over Cailan, Fergus, and their armed guards. "Loghain's men are crawling all over the Bannorn and Arlings looking for more soldiers. Your path will take you near Southreach. It's closed to refugees, but wide open for soldiers; dressed like that you'll get sucked into there and conscripted into Loghain's army before you can say cheese."

"If we got into his army we could work to spread subversion from within," Fergus suggested. "If we got conscripted chances are good others did, too."

Fianna shook her head. "No, you'd be found out well before then." She did manage a smile. "You're a Cousland, Fergus. You look, talk, and act too much like a teyrn in training. Well… a teyrn," she added and her eyes took on that haunted shadow again.

"I see her point," Cailan said with a nod. He looked around the ruins, toward the path into the gorge where he'd led his men to their deaths. "Let's start looking around; there's bound to be something we can use here to disguise ourselves."

"And with that, Fianna and I should be off," Alistair announced. He looked almost relieved to be leaving, as if spending this much time with Cailan were the most awkward thing in the world. But since they'd spend their entire lives knowing their relationship and unable to do anything about it, Cailan could hardly fault him; he could only hope this would change once everything was over.

"May the Maker watch over you, brother," Cailan said as Alistair mounted his horse, easy and nimble in spite of his heavy plate. Cailan couldn't suppress his smile; this was one thing he too had managed to avoid getting from their father. "Teagan will send word once you return and plan to make for Denerim. We can take ship easily enough by that point," he said, sounding more hopeful and sure than he felt.

Fianna threw her arms around Fergus. "I wish I could come with you, but I kind of have to save the world," she said, smiling though her eyes were glassy with tears.

"You're a Grey Warden now," Fergus said, and the words seemed strange to him. "You have a duty. And so far you seem to have done quite well with it." Fianna looked at the snow at her feet, her face crimson. "Fi, I'm really proud of you," he said, giving her a final hug before helping her up behind Alistair on the horse.

Cailan watched, feeling he was intruding on a deeply private moment, though Fergus didn't say anything to confirm his fears. And there was a pang inside of him. Jealousy. Fergus had found Fianna and they were able to have a joyous reunion in spite of all the darkness and decay about them. A gulf as wide as Ostagar separated Cailan from Alistair still.

Alistair clucked to his horse and they were off, leaving Cailan, Fergus, and their band behind. Jowan had kept a wide berth from Alistair, who hadn't been happy that Cailan freed him. "Former templar in me talking," he'd said with a suspicious glare at Jowan. But he grudgingly understood why Cailan had recruited him, and so long as Jowan stayed away, things had been fine.

"He's gone now?" Jowan asked, sliding up next to Cailan. "Templars make me nervous," he said, voice shaking, since he'd been very honest that talking to the king made him nervous, too.

"Former templar," Cailan said with a reassuring grin. He looked at the men assembled around him. "Come on. Find what you can. We need to look like refugees."

"Which we are," Ser Ryder said with a shrug.

They spread out about the snowy ruins. Alistair and Fianna had assured them the field was free of darkspawn, and as Grey Wardens they could sense it. Cailan stuck with Fergus to begin with, but the closer Fergus's scouring brought him to the chasm, the more he drifted from his friend's side. He looked around the ruins, trying to piece together the scene as he remembered it. Across the chasm, the charred Tower if Ishal stood tall and proud as if presiding over a mass grave.

He turned. That meant his tent had stood not far from here. Nothing remained of the tents but ragged scraps of fabric clinging to charred poles. Cailan found the cleared area where his own tent had been and looked about. His cot was gone, as was his table. Most of the chests had been overturned and smashed. He looked through the wet and dirty contents, mostly clothing. Some would do for their disguise. He picked through what he could find and laid it out on the snow. To think, he'd picked things so carefully before leaving Denerim, only to have them strewn so carelessly.

Then he looked for the most important chest of all. He knew Alistair and Fianna had been in it, because he'd seen King Maric's sword and his own shield with Alistair. His heart beat more quickly as he found it and flipped open the lid with a creak.

The thick purple robes, emblazoned with the Theirin family crest, had been neatly folded back on top. Though he knew it was a frivolous thought, Cailan picked up the folded velvet and set it aside to take with him. If anything, maybe he could pawn them in Gwaren to get the money to take a ship. Though a strange segment of him didn't want to part with them.

While he was glad to find some reminder of his royalty, something more was at stake. He dug through the rest of his royal relics and found the latch that unlocked the false bottom of the chest. He pried back the panel, holding his breath.

Nothing.

Fianna and Alistair were gone, headed west, with his biggest secret in their possession.


	12. A King's Victory

_This chapter is dedicated to the bed at the Marriott at ReaderCon, where I am currently spending my weekend learning about fantasy and sci-fi reading and writing, when the panels aren't usurped by soapbox-y Issues. This bed is seriously wonderful._

_Chapter 12: A King's Victory_

Amaranthine Ocean

Aubrey had never been outside of Denerim, let alone on a ship. The ocean was more endless than anything she'd ever seen or experienced, vaster even than her own emptiness. She couldn't help but feel she'd abandoned her family. And for what? The request of the queen, whom she'd seen as her competition for Cailan's affections for so many years?

There were few people heading south; mostly soldiers sent by Teyrn Loghain. Aubrey kept a low profile, barely more than a stowaway. Only the formidable amount of gold Anora had given her, from the queen's personal coffers, was enough to keep questions at bay. All she had were endless miles of open green water that grew colder with each day that passed. The swells made her nauseous, and for one time in her life she was grateful there was nothing to eat.

She huddled in the hold of the ship, clutching her cloak around her and hoping Gwaren wasn't much further. As she'd done yesterday. And the day before. As she'd done every day since departing Denerim.

* * *

Outside the Brecilian Forest

"Soldiers, maybe a few hundred," Viviane said. She'd settled into the role of their scout, able to slide in and out of the bushes and bracken with no more sound than one of the little forest animals. Here on the western edge of the Brecilian forest, and near the south border of the aptly named Arling of Southreach, they faced the dangers of both Loghain's men and the Dalish elves that roamed the forest like ghosts. "I don't know that our disguises will hold against that many. They may conscript even refugees out of desperation."

Desperation was the word of the last few days for Cailan. "Can we wait them out?" he asked.

"I don't know if they'll be moving on," Viviane said. "They were camped, not moving. Could be there for a long time, or could move out by tomorrow morning." She matched Cailan's frown. "I am a healer. Not a war strategist." She turned, her long pale hair flying out behind her.

"I'll go talk to her," Fergus said when Cailan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. He chased down the Chasind girl and caught her by the arm. Cailan couldn't overhear what they said, but he saw Viviane wrench her arm from Fergus's grasp and turn away from him.

"A distraction," Jowan said. Cailan turned to see the mage sitting next to the embers of their fire, a thoughtful expression on his face. They'd found lyrium vials next to the remains of the mages' encampment, and the dose or two he'd had since they'd started on the road again had perked him up. He was a far different man than they'd found in the Redcliffe dungeons. "I can conjure a mist that might mask our numbers and allow us to pass by."

"That could work," Cailan said. "Do it." Jowan jumped up, determination glinting in his eyes. "Thank you," he added.

Jowan blinked, and turned a little red. "You gave me a second chance," he said. "I'd either have been executed or sent back to the Tower and made Tranquil. Which is what started this mess in the first place," he added, a shadow passing over him. But he shook his head and forced a smile while Cailan approached Fergus and explained the plan.

"It's better than sitting here indefinitely," Viviane said. She seemed more irritable than Cailan had remembered. He wondered if being the scout offended her, or if she just plain regretted leaving her people. Or if she just didn't like him; either was possible. Weeks ago that might have bothered him. Now, all Cailan wanted was to get from one destination to another and stay alive in the process.

"Ryder, gather the men and finish breaking camp," Cailan ordered, snapping out of his muddled thoughts.

They brushed away their footsteps and scattered the stones of the fire pit, diminishing signs of their presence. They covered their armor with the simple tunics they'd found at Ostagar and hid the larger weapons and shields, including the two-handed massive greatsword from the quartermaster's stores at Ostagar. It wasn't Cailan's own sword, but it was the sort of weapon he was used to, and it felt more secure in his hand than the smaller counterpart he'd been wielding.

"Ready?" Jowan asked when their ragtag band, made all the more disheveled-looking by their rough clothing, gathered around him. At Cailan's nod the mage closed his eyes. His lips moved though no words came out. His arms floated above his head, palms turned upward as if begging from the clouds. He found himself wondering how a mage got his power, and what it was like for your own mind and body to be the weapon: and for everyone to fear you and misunderstand you as a result.

Mists descended from the sky and the cool white tendrils wrapped around them, shrouding them as if they were ghosts of Ostagar moving eastward. The mist muffled their passing feet. Cailan led the column; Jowan took the middle, the mist emanating from him as they went. Fergus and Viviane took the rear in the donkey-drawn cart. Viviane drove, and Fergus sat hunched over in the back. Through the mists he looked like an old or ill refugee, but if they were attacked from the rear he was sitting atop a weapons stockpile and could take the first line of fighting.

In this way they passed first one mile and then another. Ser Ryder hung back off the side of the track that they were using as a road to be certain they weren't being followed and Jowan allowed the mists to dissipate. As the tendrils began to evaporate upward, he began to sink downward as if being pressed into the ground by an invisible hand. "I think… I might want to… ride…" he said, blinking and trying to sound casual and relaxed, but the strain was obvious in his voice and in his mien. He shook off offers of aid and shambled toward the cart, only to fall over in the dirt.

Viviane stopped the donkeys and jumped down at his side. "You let him spend himself," she accused, glaring up at Cailan.

"He offered!" Cailan snapped back, also kneeling at the mage's side. He went to feel for a pulse, as he'd learned to do during field training when he was younger, but Viviane slapped his hand away. "I'm doing my best here, same as everyone else," he said. "Same as him. Same as you. I'm not asking anyone to do anything that they physically and emotionally can't handle. If they choose to take it on themselves, then that's their choice, not mine," Cailan finished, leaving Viviane staring at him with wide pale eyes. "I'm grateful for all you've done for me and for Fergus," he said, standing. "But it's clear you feel you don't belong with us. If you want to return to your people, I wouldn't fault you for it."

He turned and walked away, avoiding the temptation to turn and see if she was looking at him. Probably not. Probably too busy cursing him for all their ills.

Just like everyone else in Ferelden before the Blight.

Maric had told him that he'd lose himself to the country; it was just part of being the king. No matter what he did, no matter how much it was in the country's best interest, the people would criticize and complain.

Cailan was tired of neither feeling like he could do anything right, nor do right by anyone. And as he stormed away from Viviane a realization hit him with the force of the rising sun. King Maric had only said that being king would steal his soul; not that it _had _to. Perhaps he was focusing on everything all wrong.

"What did you say to Viviane?" Fergus asked later, when Ser Ryder had rejoined them and they were crossing through the bleak, blighted lands of the south. Fergus was trying to keep his tone neutral, but Cailan sensed the tension there.

"Told her she had a choice, just like everyone here," he said as casually as he could muster. The last thing he wanted was to fight with Fergus. "Everyone thinks I'm telling them what to do just because I'm the king, but really, you all had a choice to come along," Cailan said.

"That's not true," Fergus said.

"You could have gone with Fianna and Alistair," Cailan said. "I wouldn't have stopped you. Viviane could have stayed with her people, or returned to them after we left Redcliffe and it was clear you and I were well enough to travel." Fergus's silence confirmed Cailan's suspicions. "I wish we could go with them too," he said at last. "They're off all over Ferelden invoking treaties and amassing an army to fight the Blight; we're masquerading as refugees, and I still have no idea what we're going to do once we hit Gwaren. But Fianna had a point, they'll continue to be a good distraction until we can formulate a plan and move out toward Denerim."

"No plan?" Fergus asked, one eyebrow raised and not even a hint of a smile. "We're heading into the heart of Loghain's Teyrnir without a plan?" Cailan nodded; no sense being dishonest. "Brilliant. Bloody fecking brilliant."

"Hey. You're the Teyrn of Highever; feel free to come up with a plan yourself," Cailan snapped. "One thing I've learned the hard way is that plans fail. I had a solid plan at Ostagar and I got most of Ferelden's army killed. I won't see that repeated."

Camp that night was tense and silent. Jowan offered to mask their presence again, but all it took was one look at the mage's pale face for Cailan to politely decline his offer. "You did well earlier," he said. "But you should save your strength. I think if we set watches and keep the fire low we'll be alright."

"As your Majesty wishes," Jowan said, his tone disappointed, but there was definitely relief written all over his face as he headed back to his bedroll.

For his part, Cailan tossed and turned in his own bedroll under the open sky. No stars peeked through the dark clouds that coated the sky like a shroud woven of corruption. He wanted to swallow his pride and ask Viviane for some more leaves, but after what he'd told her about choices earlier, he decided to tough it out. Besides, if he still couldn't sleep, it was likely he was growing dependent upon them.

He got up and found Ser Ryder on watch. "Head to bed," he ordered. "I'll take the watch for now."

Ryder shook his head, his too-long reddish hair flopping into his eyes. "It's not right for you to take watch, King Cailan," he said.

"It's my place to take watch as much as anyone else in our group," Cailan said. "Besides, I can't sleep, and after all the scouting you did earlier you're probably tired. Go on." Ryder kept protesting until Cailan finally had to order the man to get to bed.

Part of what had made Maric so successful was that the people had seen him as a man, as well as a king. Maric had his failures, and yet people followed him and worshipped him. Everyone looked at Cailan like he was some sort of deity, and incapable of failing. And the fact that he had failed was as inconceivable to any of them as it was to him.

He stared out into the blackness and envied Alistair. As a Grey Warden he was capable of sensing the darkspawn enemy, something Cailan wished he could do now. He felt week and useless. Human.

Cailan let the darkness flow over him and planted his feet firmly on the ground and tried to let himself really feel the earth beneath him. The air was sickly as it washed over his face and neck with a nauseating reek. He knew that outside the ring of light that marked their small camp thousands of Fereldans were dying.

He still sat, staring out, when the first gray fingers of dawn prodded away the darkness. "You watched all night?" Jowan asked, sitting next to him with a wide yawn.

"Are you feeling better?" Cailan asked rather than answer. Jowan nodded. "We have a good deal of lyrium that should help keep you going. We might need you more as we get closer to Gwaren."

Jowan averted his eyes and looked down. "I'd like to try and avoid that route if possible, your Majesty," he mumbled. "Lyrium can be highly addictive, and I don't have much experience with it in large doses. I wasn't Harrowed," he admitted and his cheeks were a deep red in the dull dawn. "I ran away from the Tower because they weren't going to Harrow me; I was going to be made Tranquil. Cut off from the Fade," he explained to Cailan's blank look. "Emotionless." He stared out at the lightening east. "For most mages it's a fate worse than death. So I risked death. And now I'm here."

"So are we all," Cailan said. He stood and stretched, suddenly aware of how cold and stiff he was. "Let's get going; the sooner we start the better timing we might make."

The Brecilian forest was enough of a cover that they didn't have to worry about using Jowan's magic, though being amongst the wood and leaves seemed to make Viviane nervous. For Cailan, however, he was more relaxed. The woods were green still, as if the lingering magic of the elves kept the Blight at bay.

"Will we pass through safely?" Viviane asked, sliding up beside Cailan.

"We have the signet of the Wardens, who passed through here not long ago," Cailan told her, just glad she wasn't criticizing him. "They will let us through." His voice was confident, but he hoped he was telling the truth. Alistair had said the new Keeper, Lanaya, was on their side. "We're nearly out of the Southron Hills, and starting in through the Brecilian Passage; it's one of the narrowest parts of the forest, if my memory serves."

"And then to this Gwaren?"

"Yes."

Viviane didn't seem happy, but when did she? "Very well," she said after they'd walked a time in silence, the branches brushing past them and rustling sadly as they passed. Time stood still in the green twilight of the forest, and the further in they delved, the cleaner the air felt. Cailan felt more energized than he had since his return to Ostagar.

They took a small midday meal near a clear stream and slaked their thirst, then filled the dry water skins. For the first time since Ostagar they let their guard down and relaxed. Cailan even found that he could sleep. The heady fresh air gave him the feeling of having his head stuffed with fabric, and his eyelids were heavy.

For one moment he was in the royal bedchambers in Denerim, on his feather mattress with the sunlight streaming in, and Anora hovering over him. She was wearing her hair loose for once, and it fell over her shoulders like a golden waterfall. He was content to drown in it, until Anora pulled back and slapped him, hard.

He sat up, shaking his head. Viviane sat across from him, her long white hair hanging over her shoulder. "Ryder returned. There are armed men following this track from the west."

Cailan rubbed at his eyes, still reeling with the dizziness of half-sleep. It reminded him vaguely of his time in the Fade, straddling two worlds and existing in a waking dream. "Can we fight?"

"They outnumber us."

"The men from South Reach?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't see them. But we must get up and keep moving along. We don't want to engage them if we don't have to."

Cailan got up; all around him the dozen Redcliffe men were getting ready to go, though now that they were under cover of the forest they set aside their peasant disguises. They moved on, their pace increased. The further east they got the more Cailan began to feel like he was being watched, that eyes were stabbing into him as hard as swords, and theirs wasn't the only rustling.

Voices grew nearer behind them, yelling and calling out as heavy booted feet tramped in the underbrush, not even bothering to attempt to hide their presence or numbers.

Cailan gave the hand signal for them to move more quickly. But it was hard with the cart and the unfamiliar terrain, and the nerves from the soldiers tramping behind them. He had the feeling that he was slogging through mud, even though the ground was hard and dry. "Fergus," he called. "Arm and turn about. We need to try and fight back; we're not going to outrun them."

Fergus nodded and Cailan took his greatsword from the back of the cart. "I don't know if we stand a chance," Cailan said, figuring it was best to be honest. "But if I have to die fighting, again, I'm glad it will be at your side, Teyrn Cousland of Highever." His words were honest and some of the most serious he'd ever spoken, and yet he still grinned at Fergus who was strapping on his buckler and checking his sword in its scabbard.

"And I will be honored to fight at your side, Your Majesty," Fergus said with a bow, but he was also grinning. "As I should have done at Ostagar."

The first soldier emerged from between two young trees. He was a burly man whose chest muscles strained against the mail hauberk he wore under a breastplate emblazoned with the heraldry of Gwaren. Cailan tried to remember that this was a man who may once have been loyal to him. At least, until the man came at him swinging a wicked mace in one hand, and a sword in the other. Mace and sword swung through the air with a whistle; Cailan wished he'd decided to keep up with the sword and shield. The mace clanged against his blade, driving it into the ground and throwing Cailan forward and in the path of the sword.

He pulled at the hilt, dislodging it from the ground, but not before the nicked blade of the Gwaren soldier was in his face. Behind his assailant, the woods were bursting with foot traffic and yelling as more soldiers came through, yelling and cursing.

For his part, Cailan was also cursing inwardly at having let Alistair take everything that marked him as a Theirin, for Cailan really had no proof that he was indeed the king returned from the dead. He didn't have much time to think it over before the mace came whistling at his face and he rolled out of the way, empty handed while his sword hilt clattered onto the ground.

When he came up, he saw that his band wasn't doing well. Ser Percy was backed into a copse of trees fending off two very able swordsmen. Fergus and Ryder were focused on Cailan's burly attacker, and the others were well outnumbered. The forest rang with weapons clashing and men yelling.

Cailan scrambled to his feet and lunged for his sword now that his assailant was occupied. He ran for Percy and wiped all thought from his mind, relying entirely on muscle memory from his early training years to get him through. His body easily remembered the endless exercises Loghain had drilled into him, and soon the odds had been evened up some for Percy. Cailan fought one of the attackers, his sword connected to his body as if it had been grafted on many years ago.

A strangled cry from Percy cut into Cailan's blank fighting mind frame, and he turned to see the young knight impaled against the tree by his attacker's sword through his gut. Blood soaked his chain mail, and his brown eyes were wide with horror when he took his hand away to see it covered with sticky red. The forest stood still for a long moment while Cailan tried to process what had happened. _No,_ he silently begged the Maker. _This was my second chance. No one is supposed to die because of me this time!_

"King Cailan!" Percy's strangled cry shook Cailan back to reality and he turned to see another Gwaren soldier bearing down on him with his own greatsword, which he must have dropped in his moment of shock.

Again he looked death in its snarling angry face, only this time he was not about to back down. Though he needn't have worried. A whistle sounded through the air and the man's eyes went wide and crossed as he tried to look at the arrow that had pierced his skull right between them.

More arrows whizzed through the air, like heavenly messengers of the Maker. The Gwaren men tried to run, but the raptor stare of the Dalish elves was far sharper than their clumsy footfalls, and it was only a few more moments before all of the Gwaren troops lay dead in the bracken.

Only when the forest had returned to its regular silence did the fleet-footed elves of the Brecilian forest show themselves. "I am Tavadon Mahariel," said one lithe archer, stepping forward. "And this is Merrill," he added and an elf with unique facial tattoos joined him. They bowed, and Cailan realized Merrill was staring at him. Tavadon nudged her and she straightened up again. "Who are you that bring such strife into our midst?" he asked.

Cailan could hardly begrudge him his wariness. "We are friends and kin of the Grey Wardens who passed here just a week or two ago. Please, one of my men is badly hurt; may our healer attend to him first?" he asked, glancing nervously at Ser Percy.

Tavadon nodded and Cailan called for Viviane, who melted out of the forest shadows. She gave Merrill a suspicious look, as if daring the shy elf to comment on their similar facial markings, but she stayed silent next to Tavadon, fiddling with her staff as if it were a toy.

"You'll be fine, Percy," Cailan said, standing next to the man. But his face was pale, almost bluish, and sweat drenched his face and hair. "Viviane is a talented healer and saved Teyrn Fergus after far worse," he added with a smile to Viviane, who forced a smile up at Percy, but shook her head to Cailan.

"I… served my king," Percy hissed through clenched teeth. "That's… all that… matters," he said. He tried to smile, but his eyes were glassy, his gaze on something else, somewhere else and not in this world. "I lived to see you return," he said, turning that glazed and dying gaze upon Cailan. Then something in him seemed to release. He did smile, and slumped, head pitching forward. The only thing holding him up was the sword through his gut, pinning him to the tree.

"Get him down," Cailan ordered, and as Fergus pulled the bloody blade from Percy's guts, Cailan caught the body before it could slump to the forest floor. He sank carefully and gently laid Percy out. The knight's dead eyes stared at the spaces between the leaves, looking up at the open sky. Cailan silently prayed to the Maker and closed the young man's eyes.

He sat there for a long while, unconscious of people around him. Why did people feel the need to die in service to him? What had he ever done to deserve that devotion?

"Sire?" It was Ser Ryder. His voice was tentative.

He ignored it.

"Cailan." This from Fergus. "We need to get up and get moving. There may be others, and we can't expect these elves to hold our position forever."

Cailan looked up in disbelief. For though Fergus's voice was soft and gentle, he spoke words that cut him as deeply as any sword. "This man died. We need to give him the proper rites." _Rites no one would stop to give me when they thought I was dead,_ he thought. "He shouldn't have died," he said. He whipped his head around to Viviane. "You helped Fergus and you and your… witch mentor brought me back from the brink of death. Why didn't you do anything for him?" His voice shook and Viviane was taken aback. "He didn't have to die, not for me." His voice had dropped, and now he closed his eyes and sat in the middle of the Brecilian forest.

"King Cailan," Tavadon said. "We have archers in the trees. We can cover the clearing and help you burn your dead, but then your man is right: you need to move on, if just for your own safety."

"It's an acceptable compromise," Cailan said at last. He stared down at Percy's body. The young man was calm in his repose of death, in severe contrast to the turmoil inside of Cailan.

He made himself get up; made himself begin to collect dry tinder and sticks to build Ser Percy's pyre. A few times he heard Fergus clear his throat as if he were about to say something, but one sharp glare from Cailan silenced him each time. As they approached Ser Percy's body while the others built the pyre, Fergus stopped Cailan with a hand on his shoulder.

"You can't blame yourself for this," he said. "And you especially can't blame Viviane. She's done nothing but help us."

"So who am I to blame, then?" Cailan asked, meeting his eyes. His heart was torn, because he knew Fergus was correct, but it didn't seem so easy. There _had_ to be someone to blame. To say it was the fault of fate or chance didn't feel right.

"Blame Loghain," Fergus said. He sighed. "I'm lucky in that I can blame one man for everything that's befallen my family. And if I don't get to Howe, I know Fianna will. I think if you need to blame anyone for this, it would be Loghain. Turn your rage on him," Fergus suggested, but his tone was much gentler and in his eyes Cailan saw a tumultuous sadness that mirrored his own.

He knelt and took Ser Percy under the shoulders. "I suppose you'll next say I should apologize to Viviane?" Fergus nodded and took Percy's feet. "She won't accept, you know," he said. "She hates me."

"I think she hates what you represent," Fergus said. "You're the King of Ferelden; you rule a country that views her people with fear and misunderstanding. And you haven't made an effort to get to know her."

"Because she won't let me get close enough to her," Cailan said. "And there's a lot about this country I don't understand, but I want to, now more than ever. Once Loghain's out of the way… what?"

Fergus was smiling even as they carried their sad burden. "You just voiced that you do, indeed, blame Loghain for all this. You're learning."

They laid Percy on the pyre and rested his sword down the length of his body, then crossed his limp arms over his chest as if he was clutching the sword to him. The whole time the Dalish elves had milled around, stealthy sentinels of their makeshift funeral site. Now Tavadon and Merrill approached, bearing a torch.

Merrill stood at Percy's head and began a chant that dissolved into a song. Her voice soared through the tree tops while the torch popped and hissed. The words were alien to Cailan's ears, but the song was so hauntingly beautiful that it made him ache, especially when he looked at Percy's calm face. He swallowed against the lump in his throat and tried to focus instead on Loghain, and just how much he wanted to see his father-in-law suffer.

Tavadon handed the torch to Cailan. "Send him to your Maker," he said. Cailan took the torch and touched it to the dry underbrush of the pyre. Smoke curled like ghosts up into the branches, and as the fire caught, it spread and then the flames began to lick up at Percy's body. The pop and crackle and roar of the fire filled the air and Cailan stepped away from the heat.

Another voice rose over the crackle and at first Cailan thought it was Merrill, but then realized the tone was higher and lighter. He looked around and saw Viviane, and realized she was the one singing. Tavadon and Merrill looked tense, but respected Viviane's tribute to the young soldier. Her song finished and they all stood in silence while the flames consumed Ser Percy.

"Thank you for doing that for him," Cailan said to her later when the sun had set and the pyre had burned down. It was hard for him to swallow his pride, but tonight it wasn't about him. It was about Ser Percy, and remembering what the young man had done for them all today. "And I'm sorry for blaming you earlier," he added without looking at her. "I was angry and didn't know how else to react."

Viviane trained her pale eyes on him for a long, silent moment. He tried not to squirm under her scrutiny, but it took a great effort. "You don't seem to understand a lot about this world," she said. "Which is puzzling, because you are the king, and one would expect the king to be educated."

"I had the best tutors Ferelden could offer," he retorted, instantly defensive, even though he was trying to make amends with Viviane.

Her sly smile was infuriating. "You have been educated with books, but not experience," she said. "It shows in your innocence and ignorance." Her words left Cailan unable to speak, even though he was growing more confused and angry at her by the moment. But she bowed her head, her hair spilling over her shoulders, and she fiddled with the long locks. "I too have shown my ignorance and innocence. I wanted to believe that, because you were a king, you would know better about many things, and when you didn't, it confused and irritated me."

Her admission left Cailan even more confused than when she was a mystery to him. "Are we even then? Truce?" He asked at last.

It took her some time, and he guessed that maybe she was swallowing her pride. It had to be as difficult for her to admit she was in the wrong, as it had been for him to do the same.

But she did look up at him and nod slowly. "Truce," she told him.

It was a small thing, especially after the death and funeral of Ser Percy; but for Cailan, it was a small victory, and he would take it.


	13. Infiltration

_Chapter 13: Infiltration_

Eastern edge of the Brecilian Forest

Cailan looked ahead to where the large village of Gwaren was seated, and thinking that this must have been how his father saw it the first time during the rebellion so many years ago. Like those tumultuous days, he too faced an uncertain future with a small band of loyal stragglers who looked to him for guidance. And like his father before him, he wasn't certain of his plan.

As the forest ended the road into Gwaren abruptly began. The sky was less sallow on this side of the forest; it was still cloudy because it was nearly winter this far south, and the air smelled of snow. The tall leafy trees gave way to evergreens that lined the gravel track that was used by the lumberjacks who mined these parts of the woods the way dwarves mined precious metals in the depths of Orzammar. Cailan had been to Gwaren several times in his youth, but had always approached from the sea, landing in the third largest port in Ferelden. It was easier to get to the southernmost Teyrnir from Denerim via ship, and Maric's relationship with the Dalish elves was tenuous at best, making him wary of traversing their lands.

They donned their peasant disguises at the head of the gravel trail, though they kept their weapons close after the incident in the forest. Jowan walked at the head of the column with Cailan and Fergus, using his new mage staff as a walking stick. Merrill of the Dalish, as it turned out, was a strong mage. She'd blessed the staff, made from the living wood of the Brecilian Forest, and given it to Jowan. Combined with the lyrium, he was much stronger and more able. He also walked taller, more confident in his abilities.

As they walked down the road, it began to widen. Small huts began to dot the roadside, some set far back from the track and others closer with rough-hewn wooden fences right on the road. Smoke drifted from clay chimneys and chickens milled about in yards. It looked as if the Blight had hardly even touched this part of Ferelden. The Brecilian Forest provided a good barrier against the worst of the darkspawn incursion.

However, as they neared the edge of the town proper they saw that it wasn't spared entirely. Corpses were piled up, blackened and smoking, and sharp wooden pikes had been placed on either side of the roadway with deformed darkspawn heads on them. The tips of the spikes were driven right through the tops of the skulls. Flies buzzed around, feasting on the rotting flesh. The empty eye sockets stared at them as they passed. It was enough to give them all the chills, and was an effective warning to intruders. However, from what he'd seen Cailan seriously doubted that it would do anything to deter further ranks of darkspawn. The creatures were empty and soulless and didn't seem capable of rational thought.

Cailan stopped, and everyone else came round him. "What now?" Fergus asked.

"We can't take the town," Cailan said. "That's the reality. We don't know what their situation is with refugees coming in or going out. Instead of a full frontal assault we're going to have to play this slow and easy." It went against everything he'd learned or wanted to do because of his training. He'd studied war tactics and strategies and been tutored by Loghain. He knew how to amass an army and inspire loyalty. He knew how to show bright, unshakeable confidence in the face of the odds. And after the disaster that was his first military campaign at Ostagar, he knew that some tactics had to change.

"If we go in as a full caravan like this, we'll arouse suspicion," he added after seeing the skeptical expressions of some of the other men. He couldn't blame them, after what they'd had to see in the Brecilian Forest. But he also would not back down.

A quarter of an hour later Cailan walked into the main entrance to Gwaren with one hand on the nose of one of the donkeys. Viviane drove the cart, the back covered in burlap. Ser Ryder was huddled under the burlap, armed with daggers. Fergus waited back on the outskirts of the town with three men and Jowan; the others had scattered out around the perimeter of the town and would slip in, silent and unseen, once evening fell.

Soldiers bearing the wyvern heraldry of Gwaren stopped Cailan and Viviane as they reached the gates. "Stop and state your business," one man said, warily eyeing Cailan's cart.

"We barely made it out of Lothering alive," Cailan said, recalling the name of the good-sized southern village at the crossroads on the way to Redcliffe. "The darkspawn burned it, and with the king dead and the armies routed there's no hope. We just want some shelter."

The man looked him over, but Cailan had trimmed his hair and his face was none too clean. He was careful to keep his eyes downcast, the mark of a peasant. He stroked the donkey's nose, as if to calm the animal, but he was really trying to keep his own nerves at bay.

"How did you make it through the Brecilian Forest?" the other guard, an older and stockier man asked. He searched Cailan, who kept his eyes averted. Viviane remained seated, clutching the reins and hoping her silence could help her avoid notice. She wore her cloak up and kept her face down so quick glances would have difficulty seeing her distinctive markings. "Forest is full of things as bad as darkspawn. Some worse."

"The Maker is benevolent to his devoted children," Viviane said, her voice startling Cailan, who had to struggle not to burst into nervous laughter. "Who are we to question His divine will?"

The two looked at one another, their brows furrowed into deep valleys between their eyes as they appeared to have a telepathic conversation. "You must understand why we are so cautious," the first said at last. "We heard what happened in Lothering: hundreds of refugees swarming the outskirts of the village, and when the darkspawn came they had nowhere else to go. We didn't want the same to happen here. We also got some refugees from Lothering; couldn't say how they passed the forest either." At this he flicked his gaze between Cailan and Viviane. "But they took ship for Kirkwall going on a couple months back."

"Then the port is open?" The question came out more brightly than Cailan had anticipated. The news was welcome to him, and meant that at least one facet of his plan could potentially work the way it was meant to.

"We're sending soldiers to King Loghain on a regular basis," the stocky guard answered.

If Cailan had had a hard time stifling laughter before, it was even harder now. His father had had a way about him: Maric was nigh unreadable when he wanted to be, and it was just one more way Cailan feared he'd never live up to his father. He was nervous and uncertain as it stood; hearing the words "King Loghain" would just about push him over the edge. "And news of the capital?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

Though Gwaren was moderately better off than most of the rest of Ferelden, the news was still bleak. Fianna and Alistair were still wanted criminals, even though they'd managed to acquire the assistance of the Circle of Magi and the Dalish Elves in the looming war against the darkspawn, and some rumors had them in the Deep Roads right now. Some whispered that Arl Eamon was still miraculously alive and that the Urn of Sacred Ashes had been found and used to cure him, but most scoffed at such things. The one thing everyone was certain of was that the darkspawn were moving forward daily, an unstoppable dark cloud of corruption that violated everything it touched. Even those in this remote southern port town were beginning to have fears that they would not continue to be spared for very long.

The only bright spot in all the news was that Queen Anora still sat on the throne and served as an inspiration to her people in this time of torment. Cailan's heart ached with pride when he heard this. Though he knew it was likely driving her crazy that her father had set himself up as her regent. Anora had always handled the intricacies of administration, and was quite good at it, having been groomed for this position since childhood. Cailan knew some considered him a weak king because Anora did so much of that work; but if anything, he felt it made their reign stronger to play up to their individual strengths. He wasn't so sure Loghain would give his daughter the same courtesy. Maybe Anora would finally see and admit that Cailan had been right about him during the last five years.

"The capital still stands; that is good news indeed," Cailan finally said. It was a struggle to get out what he said next. "Praise the Maker for… King Loghain's wisdom in this difficult time." It was like being forced to eat something foul, something he wanted to throw up instantly. And hearing himself say those words made his skin crawl, made him feel unclean. "May we pass?"

"Our resources are limited here, but we're not in the same position as Lothering," the stocky guard said. Cailan's commendation of Loghain seemed to have softened him up. "Especially if it's just the two of you. If you have coin, there's an inn up ahead. If not, maybe they'll let you board your asses in exchange for work."

"Thank you good ser," Cailan and Viviane said together and began to make their way past.

"What's in your cart?" The question from the first guard caught Cailan by surprise, and he nearly passed out from panic.

"This cart and these two asses were all we could save from the darkspawn," Viviane said, her voice fragile. She sounded like she might be on the verge of tears. "We gathered what we could, and along the way we had to sell items for coin and barter them for shelter. Now all that's left is a sack or two of grain that will likely be bartered to your innkeeper." The tone shifted to accusatory, and though she didn't turn to face the guard, her voice was loud enough to be heard, and Cailan knew those pale eyes were burning.

"I'm sorry then," the man said, and had no further questions, so let them pass.

Cailan expected more of a guard presence once they were in the main village, but things were quiet. He figured most of the able-bodied men must have been shipped up to Denerim to help "King" Loghain in his increasingly lengthy civil war. Even when he entered Gwaren's good-sized, yet only inn he didn't see any of the usual military presence he was used to. Coming to Gwaren as a young man, he'd learned quickly that as a bustling port it was also a hot spot for scum and villainy in addition to honest trade. Only Denerim and Amaranthine rivaled Gwaren, and both ports had a strong guard presence.

This inn was standard in Ferelden, with a sprawling lower room strewn with tables and chairs. A stone fireplace dominated one log wall, and a long counter partitioned off part of the room. It ended just before a set of stairs that led up to the rooms. Whenever Cailan had been here in the past there would be a couple of guards that were off duty nursing mugs at the bar, at least one usually stationed by the stairwell. Today it was empty.

Cailan inquired about taking a room for two. While he knew there would be more than just himself and Viviane coming and going, he figured he could ask Jowan about casting a glamour to make Ser Ryder look somewhat like Cailan. Or at least muddle the innkeeper's mind. If Fergus could get into the city with him, that was. He hoped the mage would not have to resort to blood magic to get past the guards; Cailan had yet to confess that small detail to Fergus.

He handed the gold coins to the innkeeper, who didn't ask where they came from or why a peasant would have that kind of coin in his possession; money was money, after all. But he did examine one gold coin closely, then looked up at Cailan. "Pity what happened to the king," he said, and Cailan's heart snagged in his chest, like loose fabric on a bent nail. "His reign was just getting started." Cailan nodded, happy to have found some sympathy in this town, which was still alarmingly loyal to Loghain. "Shame those Grey Wardens led him to his death. May the Maker spit on them and turn his back on their pleas," he added, and Cailan's heart sank. Perhaps the sympathy wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

He met Viviane out in the stables and helped her unhitch the donkeys. The animals were relieved to be free of the cart, and despite the way they'd been dragging their hooves, they pranced out into the fenced paddock and began to graze. "I've let a room," he told her. "You can go up if you'd like to rest, but I'd like to go have a look around the town."

"You're not afraid of being discovered?" she asked.

"At this point I don't think anyone would believe me if I did tell them who I was," he said grimly. "They'd think I'd gone soft in the head. Which might not be far off, actually," he added with a self-deprecating smirk.

Gwaren had changed tremendously in the years since Maric and Loghain had first set foot in the town. Homes and businesses had been built up, and even though there was a Blight going on the central market was busy. There was a small Alienage, but it was barred and gated, with signs written in red warning that there was no entry or exit. The man at the gate, only the third guard Cailan had seen since entering Gwaren, explained there was a plague that affected the elves, and there was no telling how it might affect humans. But he couldn't quite meet Cailan's eyes, and he didn't have any direct or satisfying answer to any of Cailan's questions.

On a hill to the north, overlooking the city, was the manor house his father had used as a command center during the early days of the rebellion, and that his own wife had called home throughout her childhood. He wondered who occupied the manor now, if anyone. Loghain lived in Denerim now (and was apparently quite comfortable on the throne). In fact, most of Cailan's memories of being a child in the palace involved Loghain's presence.

But he could consider how to claim that base later. Right now he continued east, following the winding gravel path away from the center of the village. Here the noise faded away and the air smelled of salt. Cailan inhaled and let the scent fill him. It had been so long since he'd smelled that and felt the invigoration of the sea.

The docks jutted out into the green harbor; the wind stirred up whitecaps that broke against the pilings with a hiss and a splash. The mournful cries of gulls soaring white against the iron-gray sky reminded him that though there was death all around him, there was also the hope of life. He squinted at the horizon to the north, and imagined he could see toward the port of Denerim. It was silly, he knew, but it gave him even more hope to know that the potential to get there was so much stronger now. And if he squinted even harder, he imagined he could see sails there against the line where the clouds met the ocean.

No ships were moored at the docks or out in the bay. A few dockworkers milled about, though most sat on mouldering barrels or worked to repair fishing nets. Cailan wondered how well the fishing would hold out; the darkspawn had yet to taint the ocean, but if the towns kept falling and the refugees kept moving and needing to be fed, overfishing was going to be a real concern.

Had Loghain thought of any of this when he took over? Cailan doubted it. Loghain had always been practical, even when Cailan was younger. He'd overheard many arguments between the Teyrn and his father, and most of them involved Loghain accusing Maric of being soft simply for caring for his people. Maric was able to brush Loghain's accusations aside; but Cailan never could. To Loghain, he was just Maric's son. Loghain had been tested, hardened by battle and ordeals that Cailan could never dream of; to Loghain, Cailan was little more than a child playing at war.

It was nearly nightfall before Fergus and Jowan met up with him, and Fergus didn't look happy in the least. "We had to make a distraction," Jowan explained. "Apparently refugees getting through the forest is rare, and you and Viviane met their quota for the month."

"The others?" Cailan asked.

"Got in, but scattered; we thought a large group might cause some curiosity. Luckily there's very little guard presence, and the ones who are here seem overwhelmed with what they have to do to begin with," Fergus said. The realization calmed him, and he finally removed his hand from his hidden sword hilt.

Cailan nodded. "Should make it easy to stage a coup."

Though he'd kept his voice low, Fergus still glanced around nervously. "You may wish to avoid saying that within earshot of… well, anybody," he said. "Though the guard presence is minimal, the villagers themselves are vigilant. They may not be formally trained with weapons, but they do outnumber us."

Fergus had a point. Cailan sighed and headed toward the inn, but rather than go to the lower floor of the tavern, he headed into the stable. The decrease of ship travel and trade due to the Blight meant that only their donkeys were boarded there. Cailan slipped into an empty stall and sat in the hay, back against the weathered wood.

Fergus joined him and surprised him by pulling out a flask. "The people are suspicious, but won't say no to coin if you have it," he explained before taking a long pull. He swallowed and winced, then handed the flask to Cailan. He drank wordlessly, also wincing at the sharp taste and worse burn, but the warm fuzziness after relaxed him slightly. "Remember the last time we did this?" Fergus asked.

Cailan felt a pang in his chest, as if someone were squeezing his heart. "When my father left for Kirkwall." _When my world turned upside down._

"That was a good night," Fergus said with a smile. "I remember I called you the Practice King of Ferelden." Cailan couldn't help his smile at the memory. He took another swig as Fergus continued. "Maybe you've always felt like you were practicing. Because of Loghain and Anora," he said quickly, gesturing for Cailan to keep drinking. "Now is your chance to show them not even death can interrupt your reign."

"So should I reveal that I'm alive?" Cailan asked.

"Not yet. Let Loghain think he's got the upper hand. Let Alistair and Fi do their job and get their army. If the rumors about Arl Eamon are true, I'm sure he'd want to call a Landsmeet to address everything that's happened."

"Only nobles are allowed in the Landsmeet," Cailan reminded him. "If I'm masquerading as a peasant, how will I get in?"

"I'm Teyrn of Highever now," Fergus said, tone grim. "I'm equal in rank to Loghain, and Loghain didn't try to kill me; so I can go in no problem. And I'll bring you with me as my key witness to Loghain's war crimes."

Cailan handed him the flask. "I don't like the idea of hiding myself even longer, but until we have numbers on our side, I think your course of action is the best. It's a good plan."

"I _was_ raised for this sort of thing, you know," Fergus said with pretend modesty. He rose to his feet and remained steady. The last time they'd done something like this, both men had been too drunk to stand properly. And Cailan had left feeling nothing but trepidation that, it turned out, was well-founded. Now they headed into the inn and felt hopeful.

Viviane agreed with their plan, as did Jowan, who sidled in through a side door. Through the journey the mage had been telling Cailan stories of life in the Tower, painting a portrait of himself as a timid young man whose immense caution meant nothing once he'd been slated for Tranquility. The irony was that their suspicions of blood magic were the direct cause of him actually using it. "Now that I have nothing, I have nothing to lose," he'd told Cailan once, and the timidity was gone. Now Jowan snuck through side doors and cast spells of distraction and manipulation, which were useful.

"I'd like to try to avoid using… _that_ if I can," he murmured to Cailan later that night as they sat at a small corner table on one end of the tavern, while Fergus and Viviane sat at another. Ryder and the other men were nowhere to be seen, though night had long since fallen and the streets of Gwaren were filled with shadows. "Every time a mage uses it, he becomes more susceptible to demons. I don't think an abomination would be useful to you, ser." He smiled and took a swig of the watered down concoction that passed for ale here. "For one thing, they're horrible listeners."

Cailan smiled. "Thank you for making me aware of that. I've only asked you to use it when I thought it unavoidable, but from now on I'll evaluate those situations even more."

Jowan nodded his thanks. "Do you think of your wife often?" he asked, after looking about to see if there were any patrons nearby. Of course, there weren't. Though the innkeeper seemed like he was dying to ask questions, and was terribly suspicious of them all, he was certainly enjoying the surge in business that the day had brought and remained behind his counter.

"Every day," Cailan confessed. "Mostly what I regret about those last days before I left." He swirled the bit of ale in his mug. He hadn't confessed any of this to anyone, not even Fergus, who was his closest friend. "When I insisted I was going, she was angry and wouldn't talk to me, nor would she listen to me. The night before I was to leave I… spent with another woman." The whole situation confused him; he didn't regret that he'd spent that night with Aubrey, by any means; the elf girl had always been there, and ironically faithful to him in the times he was faithless to his wife. But he did regret that he hadn't been with Anora, hadn't had a last chance to hold her and tell her that, in spite of his infidelity he did love her. And now, even though he wasn't dead, he still wasn't sure if their desperate ploy would work. If it did he vowed he'd be faithful to Anora for the rest of his life. He looked over at Jowan. "You?"

"Mages never marry, and it's an unwritten rule that we never love," he said ruefully. "I broke that rule, which is what got me into trouble in the first place. Her name was Lily," he said before Cailan could ask if he felt comfortable sharing. "She was a Chantry sister; so not only did I fall in love, I fell in love with the one woman who was most off-limits to me."

"A disaster waiting to happen," Cailan said with a smile. "I understand that."

"Lily discovered that the Knight Commander was going to have me made Tranquil, and then helped me destroy my phylactery. My best friend helped." A shadow that Cailan had not seen since Redcliffe passed over Jowan's face. "She's probably dead now, after what I hear happened in the Circle." He shook his head. "I thought I was free, but they were waiting for us when we came up. I used blood magic to escape, my best friend was sent to the dungeons to await her fate, and Lily… she was… sentenced to Aeonar."

Cailan had read a great deal throughout his life and studied many aspects of life in Thedas, but he'd never heard of Aeonar. "The mage's prison," Jowan said in a quiet voice. "Most mages would rather die than be made Tranquil; well, they'd rather be made Tranquil than go to Aeonar."

Cailan shuddered at the idea that a fate worse than death would be preferable to going to the place Jowan had described. But Jowan had a slight smile on his face and he shrugged. "The only upside is that with nothing left to lose, I'm truly free."

"What about your own life?"

Another shrug and the smile spread. "I don't even have that anymore; it was forfeit when I did the work of…" he glanced around. "Well, you know." Jowan regarded Cailan curiously. "You know, you don't really have anything left to lose, either, so you have more freedom than you think."

Thoughts of Anora, of the palace in Denerim, of the land his father had freed and he had tried to save floated through Cailan's troubled mind. "I have everything to lose."

Jowan shook his head. "Theoretically, you've already lost everything. You're supposed to be dead, and less than two dozen people in the whole country know you're not. That's power."

Cailan's prepared retort died on his tongue, and instead he chugged the rest of his ale. But it was too weak to have the desired result, and he found himself still quite sober with Jowan grinning across from him. "Andraste's teats, you're right," he grumbled.

The next day Cailan met with Jowan and Fergus in the stables and they began to discuss a viable plan of action. It was hard for Cailan not to rush in and take over; he kept reminding himself that he'd done that at Ostagar and that had ended in disaster. He had to swallow his pride while Fergus and Jowan debated strategy. Jowan preferred distraction and subterfuge to Cailan's ideas for a bold frontal assault. Fergus sat back, deep lines carved between his brows as he thought.

"We can do both," he said suddenly, earning curious looks from Cailan and Jowan. "Gwaren has strength in numbers, but a vacuum in actual power. If we start out as part of those numbers, we can integrate ourselves into the people and get them to trust us. We prove useful and they'll give us what we need."

"Spoken like a true Teyrn's son," Cailan said, feeling suddenly lighter with the formation of a plan. And then he remembered everything that had happened, and why it was Fergus's sister scouring Ferelden for assistance against the Blight. He bowed his head in deference to Fergus. "Spoken like a true Teyrn," he corrected.

Fergus blushed a little at that and punched Cailan's shoulder. "Thanks for that, but don't get too used to deferring to me. You'll need to start being king again sooner or later."

Days turned into a week; an unusually glum week in the seaside village, with an uncanny fog rolled in from the ocean that obscured everything. Only Cailan and his band noted that Jowan was spending an awful lot of time down by the shore, but if they were to flash a questioning look at him, he only shrugged innocently.

When the fog lifted at the end of the week there was a palpable sense of relief from farmers, shopkeepers, and sailors alike. And the fact that there were eleven other refugees milling about in their midst slipped their mind.

Fergus began his subtle infiltration by speaking with the two men guarding the entrance to the village closest to the Brecilian Forest. "My friend and I lack coin," he said, jerking his thumb over at Ser Ryder. "But we do have skills we'd like to share with the town in gratitude." And that was how the two began serving with the town guard of Gwaren. Sers Alaric, Gareth, and Eben found work assisting the guards at the docks, whose numbers had been depleted by Loghain's constant demands for men. Eventually the others divided among Fergus's guard duty and the docks, and the original guards were just so grateful for the extra help that they didn't question any of it.

As one week became two and then three, Cailan found it difficult to bide his time. He was sleeping better now, even without the aid of Viviane's herbs and leaves. But some nights he dreamed of faces: countless faces locked in soundless screams with terror-filled eyes turned on him as fires blazed around them and smoke billowed into the sky. He woke with his heart pounding, fear for his people making him impatient.

His hair began to grow out, but he kept it pulled back, the way his father used to. A dark blond beard began to grow, spotty at first, and then filled in, helping to disguise him. And sometimes when he smoothed his whiskers in the looking glass, he would grin and wonder what his father would think if he could see him now.

The seemingly endless waiting grated on his nerves, so eventually he wandered down to the docks. While Eben and Gareth were always good for news of the few incoming and outgoing ships, he felt the need to see it for himself. Ever since his father had disappeared over six years ago, the ocean, docks, and ships held a strange interest for him. He didn't have any skills, but some of the older, wizened dock workers taught him to mend nets, and the monotonous work kept Cailan busy and at the heart of information.

"Ship coming from Denerim," one said one day, after they'd been in Gwaren nearly a month, and Cailan was wondering where Fianna and Alistair were at. Very few outside rumors made it to the remote Teyrnir. "Likely supplies."

"In exchange for soldiers," another old man said, spitting over the side of the dock into the murky waters that lapped against the barnacle-encrusted pilings. "If I know the Teyrn he's probably sent orders that nothing gets off the ship until men get on."

"You know the Teyrn's ways well," Cailan spoke up, earning a grin from them both. "He's ruthless that way." They laughed and set aside their work. Cailan piled the nets and stood, brushing rope fibers off his clothes and removing the tie from his hair. When he looked up the men were staring at him curiously. "What?" he asked, suddenly nervous.

"But for the beard, you'd be a spittin' image of King Cailan, Maker bless his soul," one of the men said. "Shame what happened all those months ago."

"Yes, shame," Cailan agreed, retying his hair and smoothing it down. He was alert for any other commentary he might have to fend off, but the moment had passed. He stood with the elderly fishermen, squinting out at the horizon where white sails seemed to glow against the eternal cloud cover.

The ship grew larger by the moment and soon it was pulling into a slip and Cailan found himself jumping and tying it off to the dock as naturally as any other dock worker. The labor felt good, and he knew it helped him stay in shape after the long weeks of no combat training.

The crew disembarked, and Cailan watched them carefully to see if he recognized any of them, and listened for any news of Denerim and Loghain. The ship had come to conscript any soldiers Gwaren could offer, as well as request supplies to feed and outfit Loghain's army. The news made Cailan bristle, but he clenched his jaw and maintained the forbearance and patience he'd spent the month in Gwaren cultivating.

He was about to turn away when more movement caught his eye. One last person was climbing out of the dark hold of the ship, a slight figure that wobbled as it reached the gangplank. The person stood a moment and tried to make his or her way to the dock, but was still off balance from sea sickness and swayed.

Cailan bounded up the gangplank and grabbed the person around the waist before he or she could fall overboard into the brackish water below. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you," said a female voice. "I'd never traveled by sea before and it disagreed with me." She looked up at Cailan with stunning green eyes that left him speechless, heart pounding in his throat, choking him. She regarded him, something troubling in her eyes as she met his gaze. "No… it can't be you…"

He pulled the cap off her head and long locks of red hair tumbled down over her shoulder. "It is," he said. And forgetting everyone around him watching, Cailan swept Aubrey into his arms and kissed her.


End file.
